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THE  MODERN  STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 


ENGLISH   POETS 

OF    THE 

EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY 


THE    MODERN 
STUDENT'S  LIBRARY 

EACH  VOLUME  EDITED  BY  A  LEADING 
AMERICAN  AUTHORITY 

This  series  is  composed  of  such  works 
as  are  conspicuous  in  the  province  of  hter- 
ature  for  their  enduring  influence.  Every 
volume  is  recognized  as  essential  to  a  lib- 
eral education  and  will  tend  to  infuse  a 
love  for  true  literature  and  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  qualities  which  cause  it  to 
endure. 

A  descriptive  list  of  the  volumes  published 

in  this  series  appears  iii  the  last 

Pages  of  this  volume 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


ENGLISH   POETS 

OF  THE 

EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY 


SELECTED    AND    EDITED    WITH    AN    INTRODUCTION 

BY 

ERNEST    BERNBAUM 

PROFESSOR   OF   ENGLISH   AT   THE  UNIVEBSITT    OF  ILtXNOIS 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK  CHICAGO  BOSTON 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
D 


TO 
CHESTER  NOYES   GREENOUGH 

LOVEK   AND   MASTER    OF   EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY    LITERATURE 


PREFACE 

The  text  of  this  collection  of  poetry  is  authentic  and  not- 
bowdlerized.  The  general  reader  will,  I  hope,  be  gratified 
to  find  that  its  pages  display  no  pedantic  or  scholastic  traits. 
His  pleasure  in  the  poetry  itself  will  not  be  distracted  by 
a  marginal  numbering  of  the  lines;  by  index-figures  and 
footnotes;  or  by  antiquated  peculiarities  of  spelling,  capi- 
talization, and  elision.  Except  where  literal  conventions 
are  essential  to  the  poet's  purpose, — as  in  The  Castle  of  In- 
dolence, The  Schoolmistress,  or  Chatterton's  poems, — I  have 
followed  modern  usage.  Dialect  words  are  explained  in 
the  glossary;  and  the  student  who  may  wish  to  consult  the 
context  of  any  passage  will  find  the  necessary  references  in 
the  unusually  full  table  of  contents.  Whenever  the  title  of 
a  poem  gives  too  vague  a  notion  of  its  substance,  or 
whenever  its  substance  is  miscellaneous,  I  have  supplied 
[bracketed]  captions  for  the  extracts ;  except  for  these,  there 
is  nothing  on  the  pages  of  the  text  besides  the  poets'  own 
words. 

Originality  is  not  the  proper  characteristic  of  an  an- 
thologist, and  in  the  choice  of  extracts  I  have  rarely 
indulged  my  personal  likings  when  they  conflicted  with 
time-honored  preferences;  yet  this  anthology, — the  first 
published  in  a  projected  series  of  four  or  five  volumes  com- 
prising the  English  poets  from  Elizabethan  to  Victorian 
times, — has  certain  minor  features  that  may  be  deemed 
objectionably  novel.  Much  the  greater  portion  of  the  volume 
has  of  course,  as  usual,  been  given  to  those  poems  (by  Pope, 
Thomson,  Collins,  Gray,  Goldsmith,  Crabbe,  Cowper,  and 
Burns)  which  have  been  loved  or  admired  from  their  day 
to  our  own.  But  I  have  ventured  to  admit  also  a  few  which, 
though  forgotten  to-day,  either  were  popular  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century  or  possess  marked  historical  significance.     In 


viu  PREFACE 

other  words,  I  present  not  solely  what  the  twentieth  century- 
considers  enduringly  great  in  the  poetry  of  the  eighteenth, 
but  also  a  little — proportionately  very  little — of  what  the 
eighteenth  century  itself  (perhaps  mistakenly)  considered 
interesting.  This  secondary  purpose  accounts  for  my  in- 
clusion of  passages  from  such  neglected  authors  as  Mande- 
ville,  Brooke,  Day,  and  Darwin.  The  passages  of  this  sort 
are  too  infrequent  to  annoy  him  who  reads  for  aesthetic 
pleasure  only;  and  to  the  student  they  will  illustrate  move- 
ments in  the  spirit  of  the  age  which  would  otherwise  be  un- 
represented, and  which,  as  the  historical  introduction  points 
out,  are  an  integral  part  of  its  thought  and  feeling.  The 
inclusion  of  passages  from  "Ossian,"  though  almost  un- 
precedented, requires,  I  think,  no  defense  against  the  literal- 
minded  protest  that  they  are  written  in  "prose." 

Students  of  poetical  history  will  find  it  illuminating  to 
read  the  passages  in  chronological  order  (irrespective  of 
authorship);  and  in  order  to  facilitate  this  method  I  have 
given  in  the  table  of  contents  the  date  of  each  poem. 

E.  B. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

JOHN   POMFRET 

The  Choice  (1700) 1 

DANIEL   DEFOE 

The  True-Born  Englishman  (1701),  IJ.  119-132, 
189-228,  312-321       6 

A  Hymn  to  the  Pillory  (1703),  stanzas  1,  3,  5-6, 
28-30 7 

JOSEPH   ADDISON 

The  Campaign  (1704),  11.  259-292 9 

Divine  Ode  (1712) 10 

MATTHEW  PRIOR 

To  A  Child  of  Quality  (1704) 11 

To  A  Lady  (1704) 12 

The  D-iaNG  Hadrian  to  his  Soul  (1704)      ...  13 

A  Better  Answer  (1718) 13 

BERNARD   DE   MANDEVILLE 

The  Grumbling  Hive  (1705,  1714),  11.  1-6,  25-52, 
149-156,  171-186,  198-239,  327-336,  377-408     .      .        14 

ISAAC   WATTS 

The  Hazard  of  Loving  the  Creatures  (1706)       .  18 

The  Day  of  Judgment  (1709) 19 

O  God,  Our  Help  in  Ages  Past  (1719)       ...  20 

A  Cradle  Hymn  (1719) 21 

ALEXANDER   POPE 

An  Essay  on  Criticism  (1711),  11.  1-18,  46-51,  68-91, 

118-180,  215-423,  560-577,  612-642 23 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock  (1714),  cantos  n  and  hi  32 
Translation  of  the  Iliad,  book  vi  (1717),  11.  562- 

637 40 

An  Essay  on  Man  (1733-34),  epistle  i;  ii,  1-18;  iv, 

93-204,  361-398 42 

Moral  Essays,  epistle  ii   (1735),  11.   1-16,  87-180, 

199-210,  231-280      53 

ix 


X  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Epistle  to   Dr.  Arbuthnot    (1735),   11.    1-68,   115- 

214,  261-304,  334-367,  389-419     57 

First   Epistle   of  the   Second   Book   of   Horace 

Imitated  (1737),  11.  23-138,  161-296,  338-347  .  .  64 
Epilogue  to  the   Satires   (1738),   dialogue  ii,  11. 

208-223 70 

The  Dunciad  (1728-43),  book  i,  11.  28-84,  107-134; 

IV,  627-656 71 

LADY  WINCHILSEA 

To  the  Nightingale  (1713) 74 

A  Nocturnal  Reverie  (1713) 75 

JOHN  GAY 

Rural  Sports  (1713),  11.  91-106 76 

The  Shepherd's  Week:   Thursday;  or.  The  Spell 

(1714),  11.  .5-14,  49-60,  83-136 76 

Trivia  (1716),  book  ii,  U.  25-64 79 

Sweet      William's      Farewell      to      Black-Eyed 

Susan  (1720) 80 

My  Own  Epitaph  (1720) 81 

SAMUEL  CROXALL 

The  Vision  (1715),  U.  41-56      .......       81 

THOMAS  TICKELL 

On   the   Death  of    Mr.  Addison    (1721),  11.  9-46, 
67-82 82 

THOMAS   PARNELL 

A  Night-Piece  on  Death  (1721),  11.  1-70    ...       83 
A  Hymn  of  Contentment  (1721) 85 

ALLAN  RAMSAY 

The  Gentle  Shepherd:    Patie  and  Roger  (1721), 
11.  1-52,  59-68,  135-202 87 

AMBROSE   PHILIPS 

To  Miss  Charlotte  Pulteney,  in  Her  Mother's 
Arms  (1725) 91 

JOHN   DYER 

Grongar  Hill  (1726) 92 

GEORGE   BERKELEY 

Verses  on  the  Prospect  of  Planting  Arts  and 
Learning  in  America  (wr.  c.  1726;  publ.  1752)      .       96 


CONTENTS  xi 

JAMES   THOMSON 

The  Seasons  (172&-30)  ,   -. 

Winter,  11.  223-358 97  >^y^ 

Summer,  11.  1630-1645 100 

Spring,  U.  1-113,  846-876 101 

Autumn,  U.  950-1003 104 

A  HiTviN 106 

Rule,  Britannia  (1740) 109 

The   Castle   of   Indolence    (1748),   stanzas   1-11, 

20,57-59 110 

EDWARD   YOUNG 

Love  of  Fame:    Satires  V-VI  (1727-28),  satire  v,  . 

II.  227-246,  469-484;   vi,  393-462 114    'i'^^. 

Night-Thoughts     (1742-45),    night    i,     U.    68-90; 

III,  325-342;  iv,  201-233;  vii,  253-323    ....     117 

ANONYMOUS 

The  Happy  Savage  (1732) 121'- 

SOAME  JENYNS 

An  Essay  on  Virtue   (1734),  11.   148-165,   170-183, 

189-199 121-^^'^ 

PHILIP   DODDRIDGE 

SuRSUM  (1735?) 123 

WILLIAM   SOMERVILLE 

The  Chase  (1735),  book  ii,  11.  119-171    ....     123 

HENRY   BROOKE 

Universal   Beauty    (1735),  book  hi,   11.   1-8,  325- 

364;  V,  282-297,  330-339,  361-384 125 

Prologue  to  Gustavus  Vasa  (1739) 128 

Conrade,   a   Fragment    (wr.    1743?,   publ.    1778), 

11.  1-26 128 

MATTHEW   GREEN 

The  Spleen  (1737),  II.  89-110,  624-642    ....     129 

WILLIAM   SHENSTONE 

The   Schoolmistress    (1737),   stanzas  6,   8,    18-20, 

23,  28 130 

Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley  (1754)    ....     132 


xii  CONTENTS 

JONATHAN   SWIFT 

The    Beasts'    Confession    (1738),    11.    1-128,    197- 

220 133 

Verses   on   the   Death  of   Dr.  Swift    (1739),   11. 

39-66,  299-338,  45^-482      137 

CHARLES   WESLEY 

For  Christmas-Day  (1739)         139 

For  Easter-Day  (1739)         141 

In  Temptation:   Jesu,  Lover  of  My  Soul  (1740)  142 

Wrestling  Jacob  (1742) 143 

ROBERT   BLAIR  / 

The  Gra\^  (1743),  11.  28^4,  56-84,  750-767     .      .      146/''^ 

WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD 

On    Ridicule    (1743),    11.   27-52,    153-171,    225-226, 

233-236,  287-301      148 

The  Enthusiast  (1754) 150 

MARK  AKENSIDE 

The  Pleasures  of  Imagination  (1744),  book  i,  11. 
34-43,  113-124;  iii,  515-535,  568-633    ....     152 

JOSEPH  WARTON 

The  Enthusiast;  or.  The  Lover  of  Nature  (1744),  tJ^ 

11.  1-20,  26-38,  87-103,  167-244 155' 

JOHN   GILBERT   COOPER 

The  Power  of  Harmony  (1745),  book  ii,  11.  35-51, 
125-140,  330-343      159 

WILLIAM   COLLINS 

Ode  Written  in  1746  (1746) 160  . 

Ode  to  Evening  (1746) 161 

Ode  on  the  Poetical  Character  (1746)      .      .  162 

The  Passions  (1746) 164 

Ode  on  the  Popular  Superstitions  of  the  High-  j 

LANDS  (WR.  1749,  PUBL.  1788) 168      *^ 

THOMAS   WARTON 

The  Pleasures  of  Melancholy  (1747),  11.  28-69,       > 

153-165,   196-210 174  \" 

The  Grave   of  King  Arthur    (1777),  11.  31-74      .     176-  , 

mi. 


CONTENTS  xiii 

PAGE! 

Sonnet  Written  in  a  Blank  Leaf  of  Dugdale's 

MoNASTicoN  (1777) 177 

Sonnet  Written  at  Stonehenge  (1777)       .      .      .  177 

Sonnet  to  the  River  Lodon  (1777)        ....  178 

THOMAS   GRAY 

An  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College         ./i^ 

(1747) 178 

Hymn  to  Adversity  (1748) 181 

Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard  (1751)  183 

The  Progress  of  Poesy  (1757) 187-/ /'-^i 

The  Bard  (1757) 190 

The  Fatal  Sisters  (1768) 194 

Ode  on  the  Pleasure  Arising  from  Vicissitude 

(1775) 196 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes  (1749),  11.  99-118,  C^ 

133-160,  189-220,  289-308,  341-366       ....      198 '^ 

RICHARD   JAGO 

The  Goldfinches  (1753),  stanzas  3-10  .      .  '  .      .     201 

JOHN   DALTON 

A  Descriptive   Poem    (1755),   11.  222-227,  238-257, 
265-272,  279-290 202 

JANE   ELLIOT 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  (wr.  1756)     .      .      .     204 

CHARLES   CHURCHILL 

The  Rosciad  (1761),  11.  963-986 205 

The  Ghost  (1762),  book  ii,  U.  653-676   ....     205 

JAMES   MACPHERSON 

'"Translations"  from  Ossian 

FiNGAL,  AN  Epic  Poem  (1762),  book  vi,  §§  10-14    206 
The  Songs  of  Selma  (1762),  §§  4-8,  20-21    .      .     208'/!^ 

CHRISTOPHER  SMART 

A  Song  to  David  (1763),  11.  451-516        ....     210 

OLIVER   GOLDSMITH  ^ 

The  Traveller  (1764),  11.  51-64,  239-280,  423-438     212  >" 

The  Deserted  Village  (1770) 214 

Retaliation    (1774),  11.  29-42,  61-78,  93-124,  137- 
146 224 


xiv  CONTENTS 

JAMES   BEATTIE 

The  Minstrel,  book  i  (1771),  stanzas  4-5,  16,  22, 
32-33,  52-55        226 

LADY  ANNE   LINDSAY 

AuLD  Robin  Gray  (wr.  1771) 229 

JEAN   ADAMS 

There's  Nae  Luck  about  the  House  (c.  1771)    .     230 

ROBERT   FERGUSSON 

The  Daft  Days  (1772) 232 

ANONYMOUS 

Absence  (c.  1773?) 234 

JOHN   LANGHORNE 

The  Country  Justice,  part  i  (1774),  11.  132-165      234 

AUGUSTUS   MONTAGU   TOPLADY 

Rock  of  Ages  (1775) 235 

JOHN   SKINNER 

Tullochgorum  (1776) 236 

THOMAS   CHATTERTON 

Songs  from  ^Ella  (1777) 

The   Boddynge   Flourettes  Bloshes   atte    the 

Lyghte 238- 

O,  Synge  untoe  Mie  Roundelaie        ....     240 
An  Excelente  Balade  of  Charitie 242 

THOMAS   DAY 

The  Desolation  of  America  (1777),  11.  29-53,  279- 
299,  328-335,  440-458,  489-501    244 

GEORGE   CRABBE 

The  Library  (1781),  11.  1-12,  99-110,  127-134,  and 
A    commonly  omitted  passage  following  1.  594     247 

The  Village  (1783),  book  i,  U.  1-78,  109-317;  ii, 
63-100 248 

JOHN  NEWTON 

A  Vision  of  Life  in  Death  (1779?) 256 

WILLIAM   COWPER 

Table  Talk  (1782),  11.  716-739 257 

Conversation  (1782),  11.  119-162        258 

To  a  Young  Lady  (1782) 259 


CONTENTS  :nr 

PAGB 

The  Shrubbery  (1782) 259 

The  Task  (1785),  book  i,  11.  141-180;  ii,  1-47,  206- 
254;  111,108-133;  iv,  1-41;  v,  379-445;  vi,  56-117, 

560-580 260 

On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's  Picture  (1798)  269 

To  Mary  (wr.  c.  1795,  publ.  1803) 272 

The  Castaway  (wr.  c.  1799,  publ.  1803)     ...  274 

WILLIAM   LISLE   BOWLES 

Evening  (1789) 276  /f^ 

Dover  Cliffs  (1789) 276 

ROBERT  BURNS 

Mary  Morison  (wr.  1784?,  publ.  1800)       ...  277 

The  Holy  Fair  (wr.  1785,  publ.  1786)  ....  277 

To  A  Louse  (wr.  1785,  publ.  1786) 284 

Epistle    to    J.    Lapraik    (wr.    1785,    publ.    1786), 

STANZAS  9-13 286 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  (wr.  1785-86,  publ. 

1786) 287 

To  a  Mouse  (1786) 292 

To  A  Mountain  Daisy  (1786) 293 

Epistle  to  a  Young  Friend  (1786) 295 

A  Bard's  Epitaph  (1786) 297 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid  (1787) 298 

John  Anderson,  My  Jo  (wr.  c.  1788,  publ.  1790)  300 
The  Lovely  Lass  of  Inverness  (wr.  c.  1788,  publ, 

1796) 301 

A  Red,  Red  Rose  (wr.  c.  1788,  publ.  1796)  ...  301 

AuLD  Lang  Syne    (wr.  c.  1788,  publ.  1796)      .      .  302 

Sweet  Afton  (wr.  c.  1789,  publ.  1796)        ...  303 

The  Happy  Trio  (wr.  1789,  publ.  1796)       ...  303 

To  Mary  in  Heaven  (wr.  1789,  publ.  1796)    .     .  304 

Tam  o'  Shanter  (wr.  1790,  publ.  1791)        .      .      .  305 

Ae  Fond  Kiss  (wr.  1791,  publ.  1792)     ....  311 

Duncan  Gray  (wr.  1792,  publ.  1798)      ....  311 

Highland  Mary  (wr.  1792,  publ.  1799)        ...  312 

Scots,  Wha  hae  (wr.  1793,  publ.  1794)       ...  313 
is  there   for  honest  poverty   (wr.    1794,   publ. 

1795) 314 

Last  May  a  Braw  Wooer  (wr.  c.  1795,  publ.  1799)  315 
O,  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast  (wr.  1796,  publ. 

1800) 316 


xvi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ERASMUS   DARWIN 

The  Botanic  Garden  (1789-92),  part  i,  canto  i,  11. 

1-38;  PART  II,  CANTO  I,  11.  299-310       ....  317 

WILLIAM   BLAKE 

To  Winter  (1783) 319 

Song:    Fresh  from  the  Dewy  Hill  (1783)       .      .  319 

To  THE  Muses  (1783) 320 

Introduction  to  Songs  of  Innocence  (1789)   .     .  320 

The  Lamb  (1789) 321 

The  Little  Black  Boy  (1789) 322 

A  Cradle  Song  (1789) 322 

Holy  Thursday  (1789) 323 

The  Divine  Image  (1789) 324 

On  Another's  Sorrow  (1789) 325 

The  Book  of  Thel  (1789) 326 

The  French  Revolution   (printed  1791),  11.  198- 

240 331 

A  Song  of  Liberty  (c.  1792),  §§  1-3,  12,  18-20,  and 

chorus 333 

The  Fly  (1794) 334 

The  Tiger  (1794) 335 

Holy  Thursday  (1794) 335 

The  Garden  of  Love  (1794) 336 

A  Little  Boy  Lost  (1794) 336 

The  Schoolboy  (1794) 337 

London  (1794) 338 

Auguries  of  Innocence  (wh.  c.  1801-03),  U.  1-44, 

73-90 339 

Verses  from  "Milton"  (engraved  c.  1804) 

And  did  Those  Feet  in  Ancient  Time     .      .      .  340 

Reason  and  Imagination 341 

Verses  from  "Jerusalem"  (engraved  c.  1804r-ll) 

To  the  Deists 342 

GEORGE   CANNING 

The  Progress  op  Man  (1798),  canto  xxiii,  11.  7-16, 

17-30 343 

The  New  Morality  (1798),  11.  87-157     ....  344 

CAROLINA,   LADY   NAIRNE 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal  (wr.  1798) 346 


INTRODUCTION 

I.     ORTHODOXY  AND  CLASSICISM  QUIESCENT 
(1700-1725) 

The  clearest  portrayal  of  the  prominent  features  of  an 
age  may  sometimes  be  seen  in  poems  which  reveal  what 
men  desire  to  be  rather  than  what  they  are;  and  which  ex- 
press sentiments  typical,  even  commonplace,  rather  than 
individual.  John  Pomfret's  Choice  (1700)  is  commonplace 
indeed;  it  was  never  deemed  great,  but  it  was  remarkably 
popular.  "No  composition  in  our  language,"  opined  Dr. 
Johnson,  "has  been  oftener  perused," — an  opinion  quite 
incredible  until  one  perceives  how  intimately  the  poem  har- 
monizes mth  the  prevalent  mood  of  its  contemporary  readers. 
It  was  written  by  a  clergA'man  (a  circumstance  not  insignif- 
icant); its  form  is  the  heroic  couplet;  its  content  is  a  wish 
for  a  peaceful  and  civilized  mode  of  existence.  And  what 
is  believed  to  satisfy  that  longing?  A  life  of  leisure;  the 
necessaries  of  comfort  plentifully  provided,  but  used  tem- 
perately; a  country-house  upon  a  hillside,  not  too  distant 
from  the  city;  a  little  garden  bordered  by  a  ri-vulet;  a  quiet 
study  furnished  with  the  classical  Roman  poets;  the  society 
of  a  few  friends,  men  who  know  the  world  as  well  as  books, 
who  are  loyal  to  their  nation  and  theii-  church,  and  whose 
conversation  is  intellectually  vigorous  but  always  polite; 
the  occasional  companionship  of  a  woman  of  virtue,  wit, 
and  poise  of  manner;  and,  above  all,  the  avoidance  of  public 
or  private  contentions.  Culture  and  peace — and  the  greater 
of  these  is  peace!  The  sentiment  characterizes  the  first 
quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  poets  of  that  period  had  received  an  abundant  heri- 
tage from  the  Elizabethans,  the  Cavaliers,  Dryden,  and 
IVlilton.  It  was  a  poetry  of  passionate  love,  chivalric  honor, 
indignant  satire,  and  sublime  faith.     Much  of  it  they  ad- 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

mired,  but  their  admiration  was  tempered  with  fear.  They 
heard  therein  the  tones  of  violent  generations, — of  men 
vhose  intensity,  though  yielding  extraordinary  beauty  and 
grandeur,  yielded  also  obscurity  and  extravagance;  men 
whom  the  love  of  women  too  often  impelled  to  utter  fantastic 
hyperbole,  and  the  love  of  honor  to  glorify  preposterous 
adventures;  quarrelsome  men,  who  assailed  their  opponents 
with  rancorous  personalities;  doctrinaires,  who  employed 
their  fiery  energy  of  mind  in  the  creation  of  rigid  systems  of 
religion  and  government;  uncompromising  men,  who  de- 
voted to  the  support  of  those  systems  their  fortunes  and 
lives,  drenched  the  land  in  the  blood  of  a  civil  war,  executed 
a  king,  presently  restored  his  dynasty,  and  finally  exiled 
it  again,  thus  maintaining  during  half  a  century  a  general 
insecurity  of  life  and  property  which  checked  the  finer  growths 
of  civilization.  Their  successors  trusted  that  the  compromise 
of  1688  had  reduced  political  and  sectarian  affairs  to  a  state 
of  calm  equilibrium;  and  they  desired  to  cultivate  the  fruits 
of  serenity  by  fostering  in  all  things  the  spirit  of  moderation. 
In  poetry,  as  in  life,  they  tended  more  and  more  to  discoun- 
tenance manifestations  of  vehemence.  Even  the  poetry 
of  Dryden,  with  its  reflections  of  the  stormy  days  through 
which  he  had  struggled,  seemed  to  them,  though  gloriously 
leading  the  way  toward  perfection,  to  fall  short  of  equability 
of  temper  and  smoothness  of  form.  To  work  like  Defoe's 
True-Born  Englishman  (1701)  and  Hymn  to  tJie  Pillory  (1703), 
combative  in  spirit  and  free  in  style,  they  gave  only  guarded 
and  temporary  approval. 

Inevitably  the  change  of  mood  entailed  losses.  Sir  Henry 
Wotton's  Character  of  a  Happy  Life  (c.  1614)  treats  the  same 
theme  as  Pomfret's  Choice  ;  but  Pomfret's  contemporaries 
were  rarely  if  ever  visited  by  such  gleams  as  shine  in 
Wotton's  lines  describing  the  happy  man  as  one 

who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise, 

and  as  one 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend. 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

Such  touches  of  penetrative  wisdom  and  piety,  like  many 
other  precious  quahties,  are  of  an  age  that  had  passed. 
In  the  poetry  of  1700-1725,  reUgion  forgoes  mysticism  ^ 
and  exaltation;  the  intellectual  life,  daring  and  subtlety;  '■ 
the  imagmation,  exuberance  and  splendor.  Enthusiasm  for 
moral  ideals  declines  into  steadfast  approval  of  ethical  prin- 
ciples. Yet  these  were  changes  in  tone  and  manner  rather 
than  in  fundamental  views.  The  poets  of  the  period  were 
conservatives.  They  were  shocked  by  the  radicalism  of 
Mandeville,  the  Nietzsche  of  his  day,  who  derided  the 
generally  accepted  moralities  as  shallow  delusions,  and  who 
by  means  of  a  clever  fable  supported  a  materialistic  theory 
which  implied  that  in  the  struggle  for  existence  nothing  but 
egotism  could  succeed: 

Fools  only  strive 
To  make  a  great  and  honest  hive. 

Obloqu}^  buried  him;  he  was  a  sensational  exception  to  the 
rule.  As  a  body,  the  poets  of  his  time  retained  the  orthodox 
traditions  concerning  God,  Man,  and  Nature. 

Their  theology  is  evidenced  by  Addison,  Watts,  and 
Parnell.  It  is  a  Christianity  that  has  not  ceased  to  be  stern 
and  majestic.  In  Addison's  Divine  Ode,  the  planets  of  the 
firmament  proclaim  a  Creator  whose  power  knows  no  bounds. 
In  the  hymns  of  Isaac  Watts,  God  is  as  of  old  a  jealous  God, 
obedience  to  whose  eternal  will  may  require  the  painful 
sacrifice  of  temporal  earthly  affections,  even  the  sacrifice 
of  our  love  for  our  fellow-creatures;  a  just  God,  who  by  the 
law  of  his  own  nature  cannot  save  unrepentant  sin  from 
eternal  retribution;  yet  an  adored  God,  whose  providence 
protects  the  faithful  amid  stormy  vicissitudes, — 

Under  the  shadow  of  whose  throne 
The  saints  have  dwelt  secure. 

Spirits  as  gentle  and  kindly  as  Parnell  insist  that  the  only 
approach  to  happiness  lies  through  a  religious  discipline  of 
the  feelings,  and  protest  that  death  is  not  to  be  feared  but 
welcomed — as  the  passage  from  a  troublous  existence  to 
everlasting  peace.    In  most  of  the  poetry  of  the  time,  religion, 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

if  at  all  noticeable,  is  a  mere  undercurrent;  but  whenever 
it  rises  to  the  surface,  it  reflects  the  ancient  creed. 

Traditional  too  is  the  general  conception  of  human  char- 
acter. Man  is  still  thought  of  as  a  complex  of  lofty  and 
mean  qualities,  widely  variable  in  their  proportion  yet  in 
no  instance  quite  dissevered.  To  interpret — not  God  or 
Nature — but  this  self-contradictory  being,  in  both  his  higher 
and  his  lower  manifestations  and  possibilities,  remains  the 
chief  vocation  of  the  poets.  They  have  not  ceased  the 
endeavor  to  lend  dignity  to  life  by  portraying  its  nobler 
features.  Addison,  in  The  Campaign,  glorifies  the  national 
hero  whose  brilliant  victories  thwarted  the  great  monarch 
of  France  on  his  seemingly  invincible  career  toward  the 
hegemony  of  Europe,  the  warrior  Marlborough,  serene  of 
soul  amid  the  horror  and  confusion  of  battle.  Tickell,  in 
his  noble  elegy  on  Addison,  not  only,  while  voicing  his  own 
grief,  illustrates  the  beauty  of  devoted  friendship,  but  also, 
when  eulogizing  his  subject,  holds  up  to  admiration,  as  a 
type  to  be  revered,  the  wise  moralist,  cultured  and  versatile 
man  of  letters,  and  adept  in  the  art  of  virtuous  life.  Pope, 
in  the  most  ambitious  hterary  effort  of  the  day,  his  trans- 
lation of  the  Iliad,  labors  to  enrich  the  treasury  of  English 
poetry  with  an  epic  that  sheds  radiance  upon  the  ideals  and 
manners  of  an  heroic  age.  In  such  attempts  to  exalt  the 
grander  phases  of  human  existence,  the  poets  were,  how- 
ever, owing  to  their  fear  of  enthusiasm,  never  quite  suc- 
cessful. It  is  significant  that  though  most  critics  consider 
Pope's  Homer  no  better  than  a  mediocre  performance,  none 
denies  that  his  Rape  of  the  Lock  is,  in  its  kind,  perfection. 

Here,  as  in  the  vers  de  societe  of  Matthew  Prior  and  Am- 
brose Philips,  the  age  was  illuminating  with  the  graces  of 
poetry  something  it  really  understood  and  delighted  in, — 
the  life  of  leisure  and  fashion;  and  here,  accordingly,  is  its 
most  original  and  masterly  work.  The  Rape  of  the  Lock  is 
the  product  of  a  society  which  had  the  good  sense  and  good 
breeding  to  try  to  laugh  away  incipient  quarrels,  and  which 
greeted  with  airy  banter  the  indiscreet  act  of  an  enamoured 
young  gallant, — the  kind  of  act  which  vulgarity  meets  with 
angry  lampoons  or  rude  violence.     The  poem  is  an  idyll 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

quite  as  much  as  a  satire.  The  follies  of  fashionable  life 
are  treated  with  nothing  severer  than  light  raillery;  and 
its  actually  distasteful  features, — its  lapses  into  stupidity, 
its  vacuous  restlessness,  its  ennui, — are  cunningly  suppressed; 
But  all  that  made  it  seem  the  height  of  human  felicity  is 
preserved,  and  enhanced  in  charm.  "Launched  on  the 
bosom  of  the  silver  Thames,"  one  glides  to  Hampton  Court 
amid  youth  and  gayety  and  melting  music;  and  for  the 
nonce  this  realm  of  "airs,  flounces,  and  furbelows,"  of  merry 
chit-chat,  and  of  pleasurable  excitement,  seems  as  important 
as  it  is  to  those  exquisite  creatures  of  fancy  that  hover  about 
the  heroine,  assiduous  guardians  of  her  "graceful  ease  and 
sweetness  void  of  pride."  Of  that  admired  world  likewise 
are  the  lovers  that  Matthew  Prior  creates,  who  woo  neither 
with  stormy  passion  nor  with  mawkish  whinmg,  but  in  a 
courtly  manner;  lovers  who  deem  an  epigram  a  finer  tribute 
than  a  sigh.  So  the  tender  fondness  of  a  middle-aged  man 
for  an  infant  is  elevated  above  the  commonplace  by  assum- 
ing the  tone  of  playful  gallantry. 

The  ignobler  aspects  of  life, — nutriment  of  the  comic 
sense, — were  not  ignored.  The  new  school  of  poets,  how- 
ever deficient  in  the  higher  vision,  were  keen  observers  of 
actuality;  and  among  them  the  satiric  spirit,  though  not 
militant  as  in  the  days  of  Dryden,  was  still  active.  The 
value  which  they  attached  to  social  culture  is  again  shown 
in  the  persistence  of  the  sentiment  that  as  man  grew  in 
civility  he  became  less  ridiculous.  The  peccadilloes  of  the 
upper  classes  they  treated  with  comparatively  gentle  humor, 
and  aimed  their  strokes  of  satire  chiefly  against  the  lower. 
Rarely  did  they  idealize  humble  folk:  Gay's  Sweet  Williatii's 
Farewell  to  Black-Eyed  Susan  is  in  this  respect  exceptional. 
Their  typical  attitude  is  seen  in  his  Shepherd's  Week,  with 
its  ludicrous  picture  of  rustic  superstition  and  naive  amor- 
ousness; and  in  Allan  Ramsay's  Gentle  Shepherd,  where  the 
pastoral,  once  remote  from  life,  assumes  the  manners  and 
dialect  of  the  countryside  in  order  to  arouse  laughter. 

The  obvious  fact  that  these  poets  centered  their  attention 
upon  Man,  particularly  in  his  social  life,  and  that  their  most 
memorable  productions  are  upon  that  theme,  led  posterity 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

to  complain  that  they  wholly  lacked  interest  in  Nature, 
were  incapable  of  delineating  it,  and  did  not  feel  its  sacred 
influence.  The  last  point  in  the  indictment, — and  the  last 
only, — is  quite  true.  No  one  who  understood  and  believed, 
as  they  did,  the  doctrines  of  orthodoxy  could  consistently 
ascribe  divinity  to  Nature.  To  them  Nature  exhibited  the 
power  of  God,  but  not  his  will;  and  the  soul  of  Man  gained 
its  clearest  moral  light  directly  from  a  swpe/natural  source. 
This  did  not,  however,  imply  that  Nature  was  negligible. 
The  celebrated  essays  of  Addison  on  the  pleasures  of  the 
imagination  {Spectator,  Nos.  411-414)  base  those  pleasures 
upon  the  grandeur  of  Nature;  upon  its  variety  and  fresh- 
ness, as  of  "groves,  fields,  and  meadows  in  the  opening  of 
the  Spring";  and  upon  its  beauty  of  form  and  color.  The 
works  of  Nature,  declares  Addison,  surpass  those  of  art, 
and  accordingly  "we  always  find  the  poet  in  love  with  a 
country  life."  Such  was  the  theory;  the  practice  was  not 
out  of  accord  therewith.  Passages  appreciative  of  the  love- 
lier aspects  of  Nature,  and  not,  despite  the  current  preference 
for  general  rather  than  specific  terms,  inaccurate  as  descrip- 
tions, were  written  between  1700  and  1726  by  Addison  him- 
self, Pope,  Lady  Winchilsea,  Gay,  Parnell,  Dyer,  and  many 
others.  Nature  worshippers  they  were  not.  Nature  lovers 
they  can  be  justly  styled, — if  such  love  may  discriminate 
between  the  beautiful  and  the  ugly  aspects  of  the  natural. 
It  is  characteristic  that  Berkeley,  in  his  Prospect  of  Planting 
Arts  and  Learning  in  America,  does  not  indulge  the  fancy 
that  the  wilderness  is  of  itself  uplifting;  it  requires,  he  as- 
sumes, the  aid  of  human  culture  and  wisdom, — "the  rise 
of  empire  and  of  arts," — to  develop  its  potentialities. 

A  generation  which  placidly  adhered  to  the  orthodox 
sentiments  of  its  predecessors  was  of  course  not  moved  to 
revolutionize  poetical  theories  or  forms.  Its  theories  are 
authoritatively  stated  in  Pope's  Essay  07i  Criticism ;  they 
embrace  principles  of  good  sense  and  mature  taste  which 
are  easier  to  condemn  than  to  confute  or  supersede.  In 
poetical  diction  the  age  cultivated  clearness,  propriety,  and 
dignity:  it  rejected  words  so  minutely  particular  as  to  sug- 
gest pedantry  or  specialization;    and  it  refused  to  sacrifice 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

simple  appropriateness  to  inaccurate  vigor  of  utterance  or 
meaningless  beauty  of  sound.  Its  favorite  measure,  the 
decasyllabic  couplet,  moulded  by  Jonson,  Sandys,  Waller, 
Denham,  and  Dryden,  it  accepted  reverently,  as  an  heir- 
loom not  to  be  essentially  altered  but  to  be  polished  until 
it  shone  more  brightly  than  ever.  Pope  perfected  this  form, 
making  it  at  once  more  artistic  and  more  natural.  He  dis- 
countenanced on  the  one  hand  run-on  lines,  alexandrines, 
hiatus,  and  sequence  of  monosyllables;  on  the  other,  the 
resort  to  expletives  and  the  mechanical  placing  of  caesura. 
If  his  verse  does  not  move  with  the  "long  resounding  pace" 
of  Dryden  at  his  best,  it  has  a  movement  l)etter  suited 
to  the  drawing-room:  it  is  what  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
terms 

The  straight-backed  measure  with  the  stately  stride. 

Thus  in  form  as  in  substance  the  poetry  of  the  period  voiced 
the  mood,  not  of  carefree  youth,  nor  yet  of  vehement  early 
manhood,  but  of  still  vigorous  middle  age, — a  phase  of 
existence  perhaps  less  ingratiating  than  others,  but  one 
which  has  its  rightful  hour  in  the  life  of  the  race  as  of  the 
individual.  The  sincere  and  artistic  expression  of  its  feel- 
ings will  be  denied  poetical  validity  only  by  those  whose 
eapacity  for  appreciating  the  varieties  of  poetry  is  limited 
by  their  lack  of  experience  or  by  narrowness  of  sympathetic 
imagination. 

II.    ORTHODOXY  AND  CLASSICISM  ASSAILED 

(1726-1750) 

During  the  second  quarter  of  the  century.  Pope  and  his 
group  remained  dominant  in  the  realm  of  poetry;  but  their 
mood  was  no  longer  pacific.  Their  work  showed  a  growing 
seriousness  and  acerbity.  Partly  the  change  was  owing  to 
disappointment:  life  had  not  become  so  highly  cultured, 
literature  had  not  prospered  so  much,  nor  displayed  so  broad 
a  diffusion  of  intelligence  and  taste,  as  had  been  expected. 
.Pope's  Dunciad,  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  and  ironic  satire 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

on  the  state  of  literature  under  "Augustus"  (George  11, 
the  "snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive")>  brilliantly 
express  this  indignation  with  the  intellectual  and  literary 
shortcomings  of  the  times. 

A  cause  of  the  change  of  mood  which  was  to  be  of  more 
lasting  consequence  than  the  failure  of  the  age  to  put  the 
traditional  ideal  more  generally  into  practice,  was  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  distinctly  new  ideal, — one  which  undermined 
the  very  foundations  of  the  old.  This  new  spirit  may  be 
termed  sentimentalism.  In  prose  literature  It  had  already 
been  stirrmg  for  about  twenty-five  years,  changing  the  tone 
of  comedy,  entering  into  some  of  the  periodical  essays,  and 
assuming  a  philosophic  character  in  the  works  of  Lord 
Shaftesbury.  Its  chief  doctrines,  rhapsodically  promulgated 
by  this  amiable  and  original  enthusiast,  were  that  the  universe 
and  all  its  creatures  constitute  a  perfect  harmonj^;  and  that 
Man,  owing  to  his  innate  moral  and  aesthetic  sense,  needs 
no  supernatural  revelation  of  religious  or  ethical  truth,  be- 
cause if  he  will  discard  the  prejudices  of  tradition,  he  will 
instinctively,  when  face  to  face  with  Nature,  recognize  the 
Spirit  which  dwells  therein, — and,  correspondingly,  when  in 
the  presence  of  a  good  deed  he  will  recognize  its  morality. 
In  other  words,  God  and  Nature  are  one;  and  Man  is  in- 
stinctively good,  his  cardinal  virtue  being  the  love  of  hu-/ 
manity,  his  true  religion  the  love  of  Nature.  Be  therefore 
of  good  cheer:  evil  merely  appears  to  exist,  sin  is  a  figment 
of  false  psychology;  lead  mankind  to  return  to  the  natural, 
and  they  will  find  happiness. 

The  poetical  possibilities  of  sentimentalism  were  not 
grasped  by  any  noteworthy  poet  before  Thomson.  The 
Seasons  was  an  innovation,  and  its  novelty  lay  not  so  much 
in  the  choice  of  the  subject  as  in  the  interpretation.  Didac- 
Jic  as  well  as  descriptive,  it  was  designed  not  merely  to 
present  realistic  pictures  but  to  arouse  certain  explicitly 
stated  thoughts  and  feelings.  Thomson  had  absorbed  some 
of  Shaftesbury's  ideas.  Such  sketches  as  that  of  the  hard- 
ships which  country  folk  suffer  in  winter,  contrasted  with 
the  thoughtless  gayety  of  city  revelers,  and  inculcating  the 
lesson  of  sympathy,  are  precisely  in  the  vein  that  senti- 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

mentalism  encouraged.  So,  too,  the  tendency  of  Shaftes- 
bury to  deify  Nature  appears  in  several  ardent  passages. 
The  choice  of  blank  verse  as  the  medium  of  this  liberal  and 
expansive  train  of  thought  was  appropriate.  It  should  not 
be  supposed,  however,  that  Thomson  accepted  sentimen- 
talism  in  its  entirety  or  fully  understood  its  ultimate  bear- 
ings. The  author  of  Rule,  Britannia  praised  many  things, — 
like  commerce  and  industry  and  imperial  power, — that  are 
not  favored  by  the  thorough  sentimentalist.  Often  he  was 
inconsistent:  his  Hymn  to  Natxire  is  in  part  a  pantheistic 
rhapsody,  in  part  a  monotheistic  Hebrew  psalm.  Essen- 
tially an  'indolent  though  receptive  mind,  he  made  no  effort 
to  trace  the  new  ideas  to  their  consequences;  he  vaguely 
considered  them  not  irreconcilable  with  the  old. 

A  keener  mind  fell  into  the  same  error.  Pope,  in  the 
Essay  on  Man,  tried  to  harmonize  the  orthodox  conception 
of  human  character  with  sentimental  optimism.  As  a  col- 
lection of  those  memorable  half-truths  called  aphorisms,  the 
poem  is  admirable;  as  an  attempt  to  unite  new  half-truths 
with  old  into  a  consistent  scheme  of  life,  it  is  fallacious. 
No  creature  composed  of  such  warring  elements  as  Pope 
describes  in  the  superb  antitheses  that  open  Epistle  II,  can 
ever  become  in  this  world  as  good  and  at  the  same  time  as 
happy  as  Epistle  IV  vainly  asserts.  Pope,  charged  with 
heresy,  did  not  repeat  this  endeavor  to  console  mankind; 
he  returned  to  his  proper  element,  satire.  But  his  effort  to 
unite  the  new  philosoph.y  with  the  old  psychology  is  strik- 
ing evidence  of  the  attractiveness  and  growing  vogue  of 
Shaftesbury's  theories. 

It  was  minor  poets  M'ho  first  expressed  sentimental  ideas 
without  inconsistency.  As  early  as  1732,  anonymous  lines 
in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  advanced  what  must  have 
seemed  the  outrageously  paradoxical  thought  that  the  savage 
in  the  wilderness  was  happier  than  civilized  man.  Two  years 
later  Soame  Jenyns  openly  assailed  in  verse  the  orthodox 
doctrines  of  sin  and  retribution.  These  had  long  been  as- 
sailed in  prose;  and  under  the  influence  of  the  attacks,  within 
the  pale  of  the  Church  itself,  some  ministers  had  suppressed 
or  modified  the  sterner  aspects  of  the  creed, — a  movement 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

which  Young's  satires  had  ridiculed  in  the  person  of  a  lady 
of  fashion  who  gladly  entertained  the  notion  that  the  Deity 
was  too  well-bred  to  call  a  lady  to  account  for  her  offenses. 
Jenyns  versified  this  effeminization  of  Christianity,  charged 
orthodoxy  with  attributing  cruelty  to  God,  and  asserted 
that  faith  in  divine  and  human  kindness  would  banish  all 
wrong  and  discord  from  the  world.  In  1735  a  far  more  im- 
portant poet  of  sentimentalism  arose  in  Henry  Brooke,  an 
undeservedly  neglected  pioneer,  who,  likewise  drawing  his 
inspiration  from  Shaftesbury,  developed  its  theories  with 
unusual  consistency  and  fullness.  His  Universal  Beauty 
voiced  his  sense  of  the  divine  immanence  in  every  part  of 
the  cosmos,  and  emphasized  the  doctrine  that  animals,  be- 
cause they  unhesitatingly  follow  the  promptings  of  Nature, 
are  more  lovely,  happy,  and  moral  than  Man,  who  should 
learn  from  them  the  individual  and  social  virtues,  abandon 
artificial  civilization,  and  follow  instinct.  Brooke,  in  the 
prologue  of  his  Gustavus  Vasa,  shows  that  he  foresaw  the 
political  bearings  of  this  theory:  it  is,  in  his  opinion,  pecu- 
liarly a  people  "guiltless  of  courts,  untainted,  and  unread" 
that,  illumined  by  Nature,  understands  and  upholds  free- 
dom: but  this  was  a  thought  too  advanced  to  be  general 
at  this  time  even  among  Brooke's  fellow-sentimentalists. 

Though  sentimental  literature  bore  the  seeds  of  revo- 
lution, its  earliest  effect  upon  its  devotees  was  to  create, 
through  flattery  of  human  character,  a  feeling  of  good- 
natured  complacency.  Against  this  optimism  the  tradi- 
tional school  reacted  in  two  wa.ys, — derisive  and  hortatory. 
Pope,  Young,  and  Swift  satirized  with  masterful  skill  the 
inherent  weaknesses  and  follies  of  mankind,  the  vigor  of 
their  strokes  drawing  from  the  sentimentalist  Whitehead 
the  feeble  but  significant  protest,  On  Ridicule,  deprecating 
satire  as  discouraging  to  benevolence.  On  the  other  hand, 
Wesley's  hymns  fervently  summoned  to  repentance  and 
piety;  while  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  yielding  to  the  new 
influence  only  in  its  form  (blank  verse),  reasserted  the  hol- 
lowness  of  earthly  existence,  the  justice  of  God's  stern  will, 
and  the  need  of  faith  in  heavenly  immortality  as  the  only 
adequate    satisfaction   of    the   spiritual    elements   in   Man. 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

The  literary  powers  of  Pope,  Swift,  and  Young  were  far 
superior  to  those  of  the  opposed  school,  which  might  have 
been  overborne  had  not  a  second  generation  of  senti- 
mentalists arisen  to  voice  its  claims  in  a  more  poetical 
manner. 

These  newcomers, — Akenside,  J.  G.  Cooper,  the  Wartons, 
and  Collins, — all  of  them  very  young,  appeared  between 
1744  and  1747;  and  each  rendered  distinct  service  to  their 
common  cause.  The  least  original  of  the  group,  John  Gilbert 
Cooper,  versified  in  The  Power  of  Harmony  Shaftesbury's 
cosmogony.  More  independently,  Mark  Akenside  developed 
out  of  the  same  doctrine  of  universal  harmony  the  theory 
of  esthetics  that  was  to  guide  the  school,— the  theory  that 
the  true  poet  is  created  not  by  culture  and  discipline  at  all, 
but  owes  to  the  impress  of  Nature — that  beauty  which  is 
goodness — his  imagination,  his  taste,  and  his  moral  vision. 
Though  comparatively  ardent  and  free  in  manner,  Akenside 
pursued  the  customary,  didactic  method.  Less  abstract, 
more  nearly  an  utterance  of  personal  feeling,  was  Joseph 
Warton's  Enthusiast,  or  the  Lover  of  Nature,  historically  a 
remarkable  poem,  which,  through  its  expression  of  the 
author's  tastes  and  preferences,  indicated  briefly  some  of 
the  most  important  touchstones  of  the  sentimentalism 
{videlicet,  "romanticism")  of  the  future.  Warton  found 
odious  such  things  as  artificial  gardens,  commerical  interests, 
social  and  legal  conventions,  and  a  formal  Addisonian  style; 
he  yearned  for  mountainous  wilds,  unspoiled  savages,  soli- 
tudes where  the  voice  of  Wisdom  was  heard  above  the  storms, 
and  poetry  that  was  "wildly  warbled."  His  younger 
brother  Thomas,  who  wrote  The  Pleasures  of  Melancholy, 
and  sonnets  showing  an  interest  in  non-classical  antic[uities, 
likewise  felt  the  need  of  new  literary  gods  to  sanction  the 
practices  of  their  school:  Pope  and  Dryden  were  accord- 
ingly dethroned;  Spenser,  Shakespeare,  and  the  young 
Milton,  all  of  whom  were  believed  to  warble  wildly,  were 
invoked. 

William  Collins  was  the  most  gifted  of  this  band  of 
enthusiasts.  His  general  views  were  theirs:  poetry  is  in  his 
mind  associated  with  wonder  and  ecstacy;    and  it  finds  its 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

true  themes,  as  the  Ode  on  Popular  Superstitions  shows,  in 
the  weird  legends,  the  pathetic  mischances,  and  the  blame- 
less manners  of  a  simple-minded  folk  remote  from  cities. 
Unlike  his  fellows,  Collins  had  moments  of  great  lyric  power, 
and  gave  posterity  a  few  treasured  poems.  His  further  dis- 
tinction is  that  he  desired  really  to  create  that  poetical  world 
about  which  Akenside  theorized  and  for  which  the  Wartons 
yearned.  Unhappily,  however,  he  too  often  peopled  it  with 
allegorical  figures  who  move  in  a  hazy  atmosphere;  and  his 
melody  is  then  more  apparent  than  his  meaning. 

The  hopeful  spirit  of  these  enthusiasts  found  little  en- 
couragement in  the  poems  with  which  the  period  closed, — 
Gray's  Ode  on  Eton  and  Hymn  to  Adversity,  and  Johnson's 
Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 

Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign, 

wrote  Gray,  adding  with  the  wisdom  of  disillusion, 

Gay  hopes  are  theirs,  by  fancy  fed, 
Less  pleasing  when  possessed. 

He  was  speaking  of  schoolboys  whose  ignorance  is  bliss; 
but  the  general  tenor  of  his  mind  allows  us  to  surmise  that 
he  also  smiled  pityingly  upon  some  of  the  aspirations  of  the 
youthful  sentimentalists.  Dr.  Johnson's  hostility  to  them 
was,  of  course,  outspoken.  He  laughed  uproariously  at 
their  ecstatic  manner,  and  ridiculed  the  cant  of  sensibility; 
and  in  solemn  mood  he  struck  in  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes 
another  blow  at  the  heresy  of  optimism.  In  style  the  con- 
trast between  these  poems  and  those  of  the  Wartons  and 
Collins  is  marked.  Heirs  of  the  Augustans,  Johnson  and 
Gray  have  perfect  control  over  their  respective  diction  and 
metres:  here  are  no  obscurities  or  false  notes;  Johnson  sus- 
tains with  superb  dignity  the  tone  of  moral  grandeur;  Gray 
is  ever  felicitous.  Up  to  the  mid-century  then,  despite  as- 
sailants, the  classical  school  held  its  supremacy;  for  its 
literary  art  was  incomparably  more  skillful  than  that  of  its 
enemies. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

III.    THE  PROGRESS   OF  SENTIMENTALISM 
(1751-1775)  -"fy-i^. 

During  the  1750's  sentimental  poetry  did  not  fulfill  the 
expectations  which  the  outburst  of  1744  had  seemed  to 
promise.  It  sank  to  lower  levels,  and  its  productions  are 
noteworthy  only  as  signs  of  the  times  and  presages  of  the 
future.  Richard  Jago  wrote  some  bald  verses  intended  to 
foster  opposition  to  hunting,  and  love  for  the  lower  animals, — 
according  to  the  sentimental  view  really  the  "little  brothers" 
of  Man.  John  Dalton's  crude  Descriptive  Poem  apostrophized 
what  was  regarded  as  the  "savage  grandeur"  of  the  Lake 
country;  it  is  interesting  only  because  it  mentions  Keswick, 
Borrowdale,  Lodore,  and  Skiddaw,  half  a  century  later  to 
become  sacred  ground.  The  practical  dilemma  of  the  senti- 
mentalist,— drawn  toward  solitude  by  his  worship  of  Nature, 
and  toward  society  by  his  love  for  Man, — was  described 
by  Whitehead  in  The  Enthusiast,  the  humanitarian  impulse 
being  finally  given  the  preference.  Though  the  last  of  these 
pieces  is  not  contemptible  in  style,  none  of  these  writers 
had  sufficient  ardor  to  compel  attention;  and  if  senti- 
mentalism  had  not  been  steadily  disseminated  through 
other  literary  forms,  especially  the  novel,  it  might  well  have 
been  regarded  as  a  lost  cause. 

The  great  poet  of  this  decade  was  Gray,  whose  Elegij 
Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  by  many  held  the  noblest 
English  lyric,  appeared  in  1751.  His  classical  ideal  of  style, 
according  to  which  poetry  should  have,  in  his  words,  "ex- 
treme conciseness  of  expression,"  yet  be  "pure,  perspicuous, 
and  musical,"  was  realized  both  in  the  Elegy  and  in  the 
otherwise  very  different  Piiularic  Odes.  The  ethical  and 
religious  implications  of  the  Elegy,  its  piety,  its  sense  of  the 
frailties  as  well  as  the  merits  of  mankind,  are  conservative. 
Nor  is  there  in  the  Pindaric  Odes  any  violation  of  classical 
principles.  Gray  never  deviates  into  a  pantheistic  faith,  a 
belief  in  human  perfection,  a  conception  of  poetry  as  in- 
stinctive imagination  unrestrained,  or  any  other  essential 
tenet  of  sentimentalism.    Yet  the  influence  of  the  new  spirit 


XXX  INTRODUCTION 

upon  him  may  be  discerned.  It  modified  his  choice  of  sub- 
jects, and  slightly  colored  their  interpretation,  without 
causing  him  to  abandon  the  classical  attitude.  The  Elegy 
treats  with  reverence  what  the  Augustans  had  neglected, — 
the  tragic  dignity  of  obscure  lives;  The  Progress  of  Poesy 
emphasizes  qualities  (emotion  and  sublimitjO  which  the 
Essay  on  Criticism  had  not  stressed;  and  The  Bard  presents 
a  wildly  picturesque  figure  of  ancient  days.  Gray  felt  that 
classicism  might  quicken  its  spirit  and  widen  its  interests 
without  surrendering  its  principles,  that  a  classical  poem 
might  be  a  popular  poem;  and  the  admiration  of  posterity 
supports  his  belief. 

An  astounding  and  epochal  event  was  the  publication 
(1760  ff.)  of  the  poems  attributed  to  Ossian.  Their  "editor 
and  translator,"  James  Macpherson,  author  of  a  forgotten 
sentimental  epic,  alleged  that  Ossian  was  a  Gaelic  poet  of 
the  third  century  A.  D.,  who  sang  the  loves  and  wars  of  the 
heroes  of  his  people,  brave  warriors  fighting  the  imperial 
legions  of  Rome;  and  that  his  poems  had  been  orally  trans- 
mitted until  now,  fifteen  centuries  later,  they  had  been  taken 
down  from  the  lips  of  Scotch  peasants.  It  was  a  fabrication 
as  ingenious  as  brazen.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Macpherson 
had  found  only  an  insignificant  portion  of  his  extensive 
work  in  popular  ballads;  and  what  little  he  had  found  he 
had  expanded  and  changed  out  of  all  semblance  to  genuine 
ancient  legend.  Both  the  guiding  motive  of  his  prose-poem 
(it  is  his  as  truly  as  King  Lear  is  Shakespeare's),  and  the 
furore  of  welcome  which  greeted  it,  may  be  understood  by 
recalling  the  position  of  the  sentimental  school  on  the  eve 
of  its  appearance.  The  sentimentalists  were  maintaining 
that  civilization  had  corrupted  tastes,  morals,  and  poetry, 
that  it  had  perverted  Man  from  his  instinctive  goodness, 
and  that  only  by  a  return  to  communion  with  Nature  could 
humanity  and  poetry  be  redeemed.  But  all  this  was  based 
merely  on  philosophic  theory,  and  could  find  no  confirmation 
in  history  or  literature :  history  knew  of  no  innocent  savages ; 
and  even  as  unsophisticated  literature  as  Homer  was  then 
supposed  to  be,  disclosed  no  heroes  perfect  in  the  sentimental 
virtues. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

Ossian  appeared;  and  the  truth  of  sentimentahsm  seemed 
historically  established.  For  here  was  poetry  of  the  loftiest 
tone,  composed  in  the  unlearned  Dark  Ages,  and  answering 
the  highest  expectations  concerning  poetry  inspired  by  Nature 
only.  (Was  not  a  distinguished  Professor  of  Rhetoric  say- 
ing, "Ossian's  poetry,  more  perhaps  than  that  of  any  other 
writer,  deserv^es  to  be  styled  the  poetry  of  the  heart" ?)  And 
here  was  the  record  of  a  nature-people  M'hose  conduct  stood 
revealed  as  flawless.  "Fingal,"  Macpherson  himself  ac- 
commodatingly pointed  out,  "exercised  every  manly  virtue 
in  Caledonia  while  Heliogabalus  disgraced  human  nature 
in  Rome."  More  than  fifty  years  afterwards  Byron  com- 
pared Homer's  Hector,  greatly  to  his  disadvantage,  with 
Ossian's  Fingal:  the  latter's  conduct  was,  in  his  admirer's 
words,  "uniformly  illustrious  and  great,  without  one  mean 
or  inhuman  action  to  tarnish  the  splendor  of  his  fame." 
The  benevolent  magnanimity  of  the  heroes,  the  sweet  sensi- 
bility of  the  heroines,  their  harmony  with  Nature's  moods 
(traits  which  Macpherson  had  supplied  from  his  own  imag- 
ination), were  the  very  traits  that  won  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  public.  The  poem  in  its  turn  stimulated  the  sentimen- 
tahsm which  had  produced  it;  and  henceforth  the  new 
school  contended  on  even  terms  with  the  old. 

One  of  the  effects  of  the  progress  of  sentimentahsm  was 
the  decline  of  satire.  Peculiarly  the  weapon  of  the  classical 
school,  it  had  fallen  into  unskillful  hands:  Churchill,  though 
keen  and  bold,  lacked  the  grace  of  Pope  and  the  power  of 
Johnson.  Goldsmith  might  have  proved  a  worthier  suc- 
cessor; but  though  his  genius  for  style  was  large,  his  capacity 
for  sustained  indignation  was  limited.  Even  his  Retaliation 
is  humorous  in  spirit  rather  than  satiric.  He  was  a  being 
of  conflicting  impulses;  and  in  his  case  at  least,  the  style 
is  not  precisely  the  man.  His  temperament  was  emotional 
and  affectionate;  by  nature  he  was  a  sentimentalist.  But 
his  inclinations  were  restrained,  partly  by  the  personal  in- 
fluence of  Dr.  Johnson,  portly  by  his  own  admiration  for 
the  artistic  traditions  of  the  classicists.  He  despised  loose- 
ness of  style,  considered  blank  verse  unfinished,  and  culti- 
vated what  seemed  to  him  the  more  polished  elegance  of 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

the  heroic  couplet.  The  vacillation  of  his  views  appears  in 
the  difference  between  the  sentiments  of  The  Traveller  and 
those  of  The  Deserted  Village.  The  former  is  a  survey  of 
the  nations  of  Europe,  the  object  being  to  discover  a  people 
wholly  admirable.  Merit  is  found  in  Italians,  Swiss,  French, 
Dutch,  and  English, — but  never  perfection;  even  the  free 
and  happy  Swiss  are  disgusting  in  the  vulgar  sensuality  of 
their  pleasures;  happiness  is  nowhere.  One  is  not  surprised 
to  learn  that  Dr.  Johnson  contributed  at  least  a  few  lines 
to  a  poem  with  so  orthodox  a  message. 

In  The.  Deserted  Village,  on  the  other  hand,  Goldsmith 
employed  the  classical  graces  to  point  a  moral  which  from 
the  classical  point  of  view  was  false.  His  sjTupathetic  feel- 
ings had  now  been  captivated  bj^  the  notion  of  rural  inno- 
cence. The  traits  of  character  which  he  attributed  to  the 
village  inhabitants, — notably  to  the  immortal  preacher  who, 
entertaining  the  vagrants. 

Quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe, — 

are  those  exalted  in  the  literature  of  sentimentalism,  as, 
for  example,  in  his  contemporary,  Langhorne's  Country 
Justice.  The  Deserted  Village  was  in  point  of  fact  an  imag- 
inative idAdI, — the  supreme  idyll  of  English  poetry;  but 
Goldsmith  insisted  that  it  was  a  realistic  record  of  actual 
conditions.  Yet  he  could  never  have  observed  such  an  Eng- 
lish village,  either  in  its  depopulated  and  decayed  state 
(as  Macaulay  has  remarked),  or  in  its  rosy  prosperity  and 
unsullied  virtue;  his  economic  history  and  theory  were  mis- 
leading. Lilce  Macpherson,  but  through  self-delusion  rather 
than  intent,  he  was  engaged  in  an  effort  to  deceive  by  giving 
sentimental  doctrines  a  basis  of  apparent  actuality.  But 
the  world  has  forgotten  or  forgiven  his  pious  fraud  in  its 
gratitude  for  the  loveliness  of  his  art. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

IV.    THE  TRIUMPH  OF  SENTIMENTALISM 

(1776-1800) 

Goldsmith's  application  of  sentimental  ideas  to  con- 
temporary affairs  foreshadowed  what  was  to  be  one  of  the 
marked  tendencies  of  the  movement  in  the  last  quarter  of 
the  century.  Thus  in  1777  Thomas  Day  interpreted  the 
American  Revolution  as  a  conflict  between  the  pitiless 
tyranny  of  a  corrupt  civilization  and  the  appealing  virtues 
of  a  people  who  had  found  in  sequestered  forests  and  prairies 
the  abiding  place  of  Freedom  and  the  only  remaining  oppor- 
tunity "to  save  the  ruins  of  the  human  name."  At  the  same 
time  the  justification  of  sentimentalism  on  historical  grounds 
was  strengthened  by  the  young  antiquarian  and  poet, 
Thomas  Chatterton.  Like  Macpherson,  he  answers  to 
Pope's  description  of  archaizing  authors, — 

Ancients  in  words,  mere  modems  in  their  sense. 

He  fabricated,  in  what  he  thought  to  be  Middle  English, 
a  body  of  songs  and  interludes,  which  he  attributed  to  a 
monk  named  Thomas  Rowleie,  and  which  showed  that,  in 
the  supposedly  unsophisticated  simplicity  of  medieval  times, 
charity  to  Man  and  love  for  Nature  had  flourished  as  beau- 
tifully as  lyric  utterance.  Even  more  lamentable  than 
Chatterton's  early  death  is  the  fact  that  his  fanciful  and 
musical  genius  was  shrouded  in  so  grotesque  a  style. 

In  1781  appeared  a  new  poet  of  real  distinction,  George 
Crabbe,  now  the  hope  of  the  conservatives.  Edmund 
Burke,  who  early  in  his  great  career  had  assailed  the  radicals 
in  his  ironic  Vindication  of  Natural  Society,  and  who  to  the 
end  of  his  life  contended  against  them  in  the  arena  of  politics, 
on  reading  some  of  Crabbe's  manuscripts,  rescued  this  cul- 
tured and  ingenuous  man  from  obscurity  and  distress;  and 
Dr.  Johnson  presently  aided  him  in  his  literary  labors.  In 
The  Library  Crabbe  expressed  the  reverence  of  a  scholarly 
soul  for  the  garnered  wisdom  of  the  past,  and  satirized  some 
of  the  popular  writings  of  the  day,  including  sentimental 
fiction.     He  would  not  have  denied  the  world  those  con- 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTION 

solations  which  flow  from  the  hterature  that  mirrors  our 
hopes  and  dreams;  but  his  honest  spirit  revolted  when  such 
hterature  professed  to  be  true  to  Hfe.  His  acquaintance 
with  actual  conditions  in  humble  circles,  and  with  hard- 
ships, was  as  personal  as  Goldsmith's;  but  he  was  not  the 
kind  of  poet  who  soothes  the  miseries  of  mankind  by  ignor- 
ing them.  In  The  Village  he  arose  with  all  the  vigor  and 
intensity  of  insulted  common  sense  to  refute  the  dreamers 
who  offered  a  rose-colored  picture  of  country  life  as  a  genuine 
portrayal  of  truth  and  nature.  So  evident  was  his  mastery 
of  his  subject,  his  clearness  of  perception,  and  his  earnest- 
ness of  feeling,  that  he  attracted  immediate  attention;  and 
he  might  well  have  led  a  new  advance  under  the  ancient 
standards.  But  silence  fell  upon  Crabbe  for  many  years; 
and  this  proved  to  be  the  last  occasion  in  the  poetical  his- 
tory of  the  century  that  a  powerful  voice  was  raised  in  be- 
half of  the  old  cause. 

The  poet  who  became  the  favorite  of  moderate  senti- 
mentalists, in  what  were  called  "genteel"  circles,  was  William 
Cowper.  He  presented  little  or  nothing  that  could  affright 
the  gentle  emotions,  and  much  that  pleasurably  stimulated 
them.  He  enriched  the  poetry  of  the  domestic  affections, 
and  had  a  vein  of  sadness  wliich  occasionally,  as  m  To  Mary, 
deepened  into  the  most  touching  pathos.  In  The  Task,  a 
discursive  familiar  essay  in  smooth-flowing  blank  verse, 
he  dwelt  fondly  upon  those  satisfactions  which  his  life  of 
uneventful  retirement  offered;  intimated  that  truth  and 
wisdom  were  less  surely  found  by  poring  upon  books  than 
by  meditating  among  beloved  rural  scenes;  and,  turning 
his  sad  gaze  toward  the  distant  world  of  action,  deplored 
that  mankind  strained  "the  natural  bond  of  brotherhood" 
by  tolerating  cruel  imprisonments,  slavery,  and  warfare. 
Such  humanitarian  views,  when  they  seek  the  aid  of  religious 
ethics,  ought  normally  to  find  support  in  that  sentimentalized 
Christianity  which  professes  the  entire  goodness  of  the  human 
heart;  but  the  discordant  element  in  Cowper's  mind  was 
his  inclination  towards  Calvinism,  which  goes  to  the  op- 
posite extreme  by  insisting  on  total  depravity.  Personally 
he  believed  that  he  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin 


INTRODUCTIOX  xxxv 

(against  the  Holy  Spirit), — a  dreadful  thought  which  under- 
lies his  tragic  poem,  The  Castaway;  and  probably  unwhole- 
some, though  well-intentioned,  was  the  influence  upon  him 
of  his  spiritual  adviser,  John  Newton,  whose  gloomy  theology 
may  be  seen  in  the  hymn,  The  Vision  of  Life  in  Death. 
Cowper's  sense  of  the  reality  of  evil  not  only  distracted  his 
mind  to  madness,  but  also  prevented  him  from  carrying  his 
sentimental  principles  to  their  logical  goal.  What  the  hour 
demanded  were  poets  who,  discountenancing  any  mistrust 
of  the  natural  emotions,  should  give  them  free  rein.  They 
were  found  at  last  in  Burns  and  in  Blake. 

The  sentimentalists  had  long  j'earned  for  the  advent  of 
the  ideal  poet.  Macpherson  had  presented  him,— but  as 
of  an  era  far  remote;  latterly  Beattie,  in  The  Minstrel,  had 
set  forth  his  growth  under  the  inspiration  of  Nature, — but 
in  a  purely  imaginary  tale.  Suddenly  Burns  appeared:  and 
the  ideal  seemed  incarnated  in  the  living  present.  The 
Scottish  bard  was  introduced  to  the  world  by  his  first  ad- 
mirers as  "a  heaven-taught  ploughman,  of  humble  unlettered 
station,"  whose  "simple  strains,  artless  and  unadorned, 
seem  to  flow  without  effort  from  the  native  feelings  of  the 
heart";  and  as  "a  signal  instance  of  true  and  uncultivated 
genius."  The  real  Burns,  though  indeed  a  genius  of  song, 
was  far  better  read  than  the  expectant  world  wished  to 
beheve,  particularlj^  in  those  whom  he  called  his  "bosom 
favorites,"  the  sentimentalists  Mackenzie  and  Sterne;  and 
his  sense  of  rhythm  and  melody  had  been  trained  by  his 
emulation  of  earlier  Scotch  lyricists,  whose  lilting  cadences 
flow  towards  him  as  highland  rills  to  the  gathering  torrent. 
Sung  to  the  notes  of  his  native  tunes,  and  infused  with  the 
local  color  of  Scotch  life,  the  sentimental  themes  assumed 
the  freshness  of  novelty.  Giving  a  new  ardor  to  revolu- 
tionary tendencies,  Burns  revolted  against  the  orthodoxy 
of  the  "Auld  Lichts,"  depicting  its  representatives  as  ludi- 
crously hypocritical.  He  protested  against  distinctions 
founded  on  birth  or  ranlc,  as  in  A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That; 
and,  on  the  other  hand,  he  idealized  the  homely  feelings 
and  manners  of  the  "virtuous  populace"  in  his  immortal 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night.    He  scorned  academic  learning,  and 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTION 

protested  that  true  inspiration  was  rather  to  be  found  in 
"ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire," — or  at  the  nearest  tavern: 

Leese  me  on  drink !  it  gies  us  mair 
Than  either  school  or  college. 

Like  Sterne,  who  boasted  that  his  pen  governed  him, 
Burns  praised  and  affected  the  impromptu: 

But  how  the  subject  theme  may  gang, 

Let  time  or  chance  determine; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang, 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

His  Muse  was  to  be  the  mood  of  the  moment.  Herein  he 
brought  to  fulfillment  the  sentimental  desire  for  the  libera- 
tion of  the  emotions;  but  his  work,  taken  as  a  whole,  can 
scarcely  be  said  to  vindicate  the  faith  that  the  emotions, 
once  freed,  would  manifest  instinctive  purity.  At  Ms  al- 
most unrivalled  best,  he  can  sing  in  the  sweetest  strains  the 
raptures  or  pathos  of  innocent  youthful  love,  as  in  Sweet 
Afton  or  To  Mary  in  Heaven;  but  straightway  sinking  from 
that  elevation  of  feeling  to  the  depths  of  vulgarity  or  gross- 
ness,  he  will  chant  with  equal  zest  and  skill  the  indulgence 
of  the  animal  appetites.*  He  hails  the  joys  of  life,  but  with- 
out discriminating  between  the  higher  and  the  lower.  Yet 
these  exuberant  animal  spirits  which,  unrestrained  by  con- 
science or  taste,  drove  him  too  often  into  scurrility,  gave, 
his  work  that  passion — warm,  throbbing,  and  personal — 
which  had  been  painfully  wanting  in  earlier  poets  of  sensi- 
bility. It  was  his  emotional  intensity  as  well  as  his  lyric 
genius  that  made  him  the  most  popular  poet  of  his  time. 

In  Burns,  sentimentalism  was  largely  temperamental,  un- 
reflective,  and  concrete.  In  William  Blake,  the  singularity 
of  whose  work  long  retarded  its  due  appreciation,  senti- 
mentalism was  likewise  temperamental;  but,  unconfined 
to  actuality,  became  far  broader  in  scope,  more  spiritual, 
and  more  consistently  philosophic.  Indeed,  Blake  was  the 
ultimate  sentimentalist  of  the  century.     A  visionary  and 

*  In  this  edition,  the  poems  of  Bums,  unlike  those  of  the  other  poets, 
are  priated  not  in  the  order  of  their  publication  but  as  nearly  as  as- 
certainable in  that  of  their  composition. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxvii 

symbolist,  he  passed  beyond  Shaftesbury  in  his  thought,  and 
beyond  any  poet  of  the  school  in  his  endeavor  to  create  a 
new  and  appropriate  style.  His  contemporary,  Erasmus 
Darwin,  author  of  The  Botanic  Garden,  was  trying  to  give 
sentimentalism  a  novel  interpretation  by  describing  the 
life  of  plants  in  terms  of  human  life;  but,  Darwin  being 
destitute  of  artistic  sense,  the  result  was  grotesque.  Blake, 
by  training  and  vocation  an  engraver,  was  primarily  an 
artist;  but,  partly  under  Swedenborgian  influences,  he  had 
grasped  the  innermost  character  of  sentimentalism,  perceived 
all  its  implications,  and  carried  them  fearlessly  to  their  ut- 
most bounds.  To  him  every  atom  of  the  cosmos  was  lit- 
erally spiritual  and  holy;  the  divine  and  the  human,  the 
soul  and  the  flesh,  were  absolutely  one;  God  and  Man  were 
only  two  aspects  of  pervasive  "mercy,  pity,  peace,  and  love." 
Nothing  else  had  genuine  reality.  The  child,  its  vision  being 
as  yet  unclouded  by  false  teachings,  saw  the  universe  thus 
truly;  and  Blake,  therefore,  in  Songs  of  Innocence,  gave 
glimpses  of  the  world  as  the  child  sees  it, — a  guileless  exist- 
ence amid  the  peace  that  passes  all  understanding.  He 
hymned  the  sanctity  of  animal  life:  even  the  tiger,  con- 
ventionally an  incarnation  of  cruelty,  was  a  glorious  creature 
of  divine  mould;  to  slay  or  cage  a  beast  was,  the  Auguries 
of  Innocence  protested,  to  incur  anathema.  The  Book  of 
Thel  allegorically  showed  the  mutual  interdependence  of 
all  creation,  and  reprehended  the  maiden  shyness  that  shrinks 
from  merging  its  life  in  the  sacrificial  union  which  sustains 
the  whole. 

To  Blake  the  great  enemy  of  truth  was  the  cold  logical 
reason,  a  truncated  part  of  Man's  spirit,  which  was  incapable 
of  attaining  wisdom,  and  which  had  fabricated  those  false 
notions  that  governed  the  practical  world  and  constrained 
the  natural  feelings.  Instances  of  the  unhappiness  caused 
by  such  constraint,  he  gave  in  Songs  of  Experience,  where 
The  Garden  of  Love  describes  the  blighting  curse  which  church 
law  had  laid  upon  free  love.  To  overthrow  intellectualism 
and  discipline,  Man  must  liberate  his  most  precious  faculty, 
the  imagination,  which  alone  can  reveal  the  spiritual  char- 
acter of  the  universe  and  the  beauty  that  life  will  wear  when 


xxxvlu  INTRODUCTION 

the  feelings  cease  to  be  unnaturally  confined.  Temporarily 
Blake  rejoiced  when  the  French  Revolution  seemed  to  usher 
in  the  millennium  of  freedom  and  peace;  and  his  interpre- 
tation of  its  earlier  incidents  in  his  poem  on  that  theme* 
illustrates  in  style  and  spirit  the  highly  original  nature  of 
his  mind.  More  than  any  predecessor  he  understood  how 
the  peculiarly  poetical  possibilities  of  sentimentalism  might 
be  elicited,  namely  by  emphasizing  its  mystical  quality. 
Thus  under  his  guidance  mysticism,  which  in  the  early 
seventeenth  century  had  sublimated  the  religious  poetry 
of  the  orthodox,  returned  to  sublimate  the  poetry  of  the 
radicals;  and  with  that  achievement  the  sentimental  move- 
ment reached  its  climax. 

Burns  died  in  1796;  Blake,  lost  in  a  realm  of  symbolism, 
became  unintelligible;  and  temporarily  sentimentalism  suf- 
fered a  reaction.  The  French  Revolution,  with  its  Reign 
of  Terror,  and  the  rise  of  a  military  autocrat,  though  sup- 
ported, even  after  Great  Britain  had  taken  up  arms  against 
Napoleon,  by  some  "friends  of  humanity"  who  placed  uni- 
versal brotherhood  above  patriotism,  seemed  to  the  general 
public  to  demonstrate  that  the  sentimental  theories  and 
hopes  were  untrue  to  life  and  led  to  results  directly  contrary 
to  those  predicted.  Once  again,  in  Canning's  caustic  satires 
of  The  Anti-Jacobin,  conservatism  raised  its  voice.  But 
by  this  time  sentimentalism  was  too  fully  developed  and 
widelj^  spread  to  be  more  than  checked.  Under  the  new 
leadership  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  and  Southey,  the 
movement,  chastened  and  modified  by  experience,  resumed 
its  progress;  and  the  fame  of  its  new  leaders  presently 
dimmed  the  memory  of  those  pioneers  who  in  the  eighteenth 
century  had  undermined  the  foundations  of  orthodoxy, 
slowly  upbuilt  a  new  world  of  thought,  gradually  fashioned 
a  poetic  style  more  suited  to  their  sentiments  than  the 
classical,  and  thus  helped  to  plunge  the  modern  world  into 
that  struggle  which,  in  life  and  in  literature,  rages  about 

^^  ^^^^^-  Ernest  Bernbaum 

*  The  French  Revolution  was  suppressed  at  the  time,  and  has  been 
recovered  only  in  our  own  day  by  Dr.  John  Sampson,  who  first  pub- 
lished it  in  tlie  admirable  Clarendon  Press  edition  of  Blake. 


ENGLISH   POETS    OF   THE 
EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY 

JOHN   POMFEET 

THE    CHOICE 

If  Heaven  the  grateful  liberty  would  give, 
That  I  might  choose  my  method  how  to  live; 
And  all  those  hours  propitious  fate  should  lend. 
In  blissful  ease  and  satisfaction  spend. 

I.    The  Gentleman's  Retirement 

Near  some  fair  town  I'd  have  a  private  seat, 
Built  uniform,  not  little,  nor  too  great: 
Better,  if  on  a  rising  ground  it  stood; 
Fields  on  this  side,  on  that  a  neighbouring  wood. 
It  should  within  no  other  things  contain. 
But  what  are  useful,  necessary,  plain : 
Methinks  'tis  nauseous,  and  I'd  ne'er  endure, 
The  needless  pomp  of  gaudy  furniture. 
A  little  garden,  grateful  to  the  eye; 
And  a  cool  rivulet  run  murmuring  by. 
On  whose  delicious  banks  a  stately  row 
Of  shady  limes,  or  sycamores,  should  grow. 
At  th'  end  of  which  a  silent  study  placed, 
Should  with  the  noblest  authors  there  be  graced : 
Horace  and  Virgil,  in  whose  mighty  lines 
Immortal  wit,  and  solid  learning,  shines; 
Sharp  Juvenal  and  amorous  Ovid  too. 
Who  all  the  turns  of  love's  soft  passion  knew : 
He  that  with  judgment  reads  the  charming  lines, 
In  which  strong  art  with  stronger  nature  joins. 
Must  grant  his  fancy  does  the  Ijest  excel ; 
His  thoughts  so  tender,  and  expressed  so  well: 
1 


ENGLISH   POETS 

With  all  those  moderns,  men  of  steady  sense, 
Esteemed  for  learning,  and  for  eloquence. 
In  some  of  these,  as  fancy  should  advise, 
I'd  always  take  my  morning  exercise: 
Eor  sure  no  minutes  bring  us  more  content. 
Than  those  in  pleasing  useful  studies  spent. 

n.    His  Fortune  and  Charity 

I'd  have  a  clear  and  competent  estate, 

That  I  might  live  genteelly,  but  not  great: 

As  much  as  I  could  moderately  spend; 

A  little  more,  sometimes  t'  oblige  a  friend. 

Nor  should  the  sons  of  poverty  repine 

At  fortune's  frown,  for  they  should  taste  of  mine; 

And  all  that  objects  of  true  pity  were. 

Should  be  relieved  with  what  my  wants  could  spare; 

For  what  our  Maker  has  too  largely  given. 

Should  be  returned  in  gratitude  to  Heaven. 

A  frugal  plenty  should  my  table  spread. 

With  healthy,  not  luxurious,  dishes  fed; 

Enough  to  satisfy,  and  something  more. 

To  feed  the  stranger,  and  the  neighb'ring  poor. 

Strong  meat  indulges  vice,  and  pampering  food 

Creates  diseases,  and  inflames  the  blood. 

But  what's  sufficient  to  make  nature  strong, 

And  the  bright  lamp  of  life  continue  long, 

I'd  freely  take,  and  as  I  did  possess, 

The  bounteous  Author  of  my  plenty  bless. 

III.    His  Hospitality  and  Temperance 

I'd  have  a  little  cellar,  cool  and  neat. 
With  humming  ale  and  virgin  wine  replete. 
Wine  whets  the  wit,  improves  its  native  force, 
And  gives  a  pleasant  flavour  to  discourse; 
By  making  all  our  spirits  debonair, 
Throws  off  the  lees  and  sediment  of  care. 
But  as  the  greatest  blessing  Heaven  lends 
May  be  debauched,  and  serve  ignoble  ends; 
So,  but  too  oft,  the  grape's  refreshing  juice 
Does  many  mischievous  effects  produce. 


JOHN   POMFKET 

My  house  should  no  such  rude  disorders  know, 

As  from  high  drinking  consequently  flow; 

Nor  would  1  use  what  was  so  kindly  given, 

To  the  dishonour  of  indulgent  Heaven. 

If  any  neighbour  came,  he  should  be  free. 

Used  with  respect,  and  not  uneasy  be, 

In  my  retreat,  or  to  himself  or  me. 

What  freedom,  prudence,  and  right  reason  give. 

All  men  may,  with  impunity,  receive: 

But  the  least  swerving  from  their  rules  too  much. 

And  what's  forbidden  us,  'tis  death  to  touch. 

IV.    His  Company 

That  life  may  be  more  comfortable  yet. 
And  all  my  joys  refined,  sincere,  and  great; 
I'd  choose  two  friends,  whose  company  would  be 
A  great  advance  to  my  felicity : 
Well-born,  of  humours  suited  to  my  own. 
Discreet,  that  men  as  well  as  books  have  known ; 
Brave,  generous,  witty,  and  exactly  free 
From  loose  behaviour  or  formality ; 
Airy  and  prudent,  merry  but  not  light; 
Quick  in  discerning;  and  in  judging,  right; 
They  should  be  secret,  faithful  to  their  trust. 
In  reasoning  cool,  strong,  temperate,  and  just; 
Obliging,  open,  without  huffing,  brave; 
Brisk  in  gay  talking,  and  in  sober,  grave ; 
Close  in  dispute,  but  not  tenacious ;  tried 
By  solemn  reason,  and  let  that  decide; 
Not  prone  to  lust,  revenge,  or  envious  hate; 
Nor  busy  meddlers  with  intrigues  of  state; 
Strangers  to  slander,  and  sworn  foes  to  spite, 
Not  quarrelsome,  but  stout  enough  to  fight; 
Loyal  and  pious,  friends  to  Caesar;  true 
As  dying  martyrs  to  their  Makers  too. 
In  their  society  I  could  not  miss 
A  permanent,  sincere,  substantial  bliss. 


ENGLISH   POETS 

V.    His  Lady  and  Converse 

Would  bounteous  Heaven  once  more  indulge,  I'd  choose 

(For  who  would  so  much  satisfaction  lose 

As  witty  nymphs  in  conversation  give  ?) 

Near  some  obliging  modest  fair  to  live: 

For  there's  that  sweetness  in  a  female  mind, 

Which  in  a  man's  we  cannot  [hope  to]  find; 

That,  by  a  secret  but  a  powerful  art. 

Winds  up  the  spring  of  life,  and  does  impart 

Fresh,  vital  heat  to  the  transported  heart. 

I'd  have  her  reason  all  her  passions  sway; 
Easy  in  company,  in  private  gay; 
Coy  to  a  fop,  to  the  deserving  free ; 
Still  constant  to  herself,  and  just  to  me. 
She  should  a  soul  have  for  great  actions  fit; 
Prudence  and  wisdom  to  direct  her  wit; 
Courage  to  look  bold  danger  in  the  face, 
Not  fear,  but  only  to  be  proud  or  base; 
Quick  to  advise,  by  an  emergence  pressed. 
To  give  good  counsel,  or  to  take  the  best. 

I'd  have  th'  expressions  of  her  thoughts  be  such, 
She  might  not  seem  reserved,  nor  talk  too  much : 
That  shows  a  want  of  judgment  and  of  sense; 
More  than  enough  is  but  impertinence. 
Her  conduct  regular,  her  mirth  refined; 
Civil  to  strangers,  to  her  neighbours  kind; 
Averse  to  vanity,  revenge,  and  pride; 
In  all  the  methods  of  deceit  untried; 
So  faithful  to  her  friend,  and  good  to  all, 
No  censure  might  upon  her  actions  fall: 
Then  would  e'en  envy  be  compelled  to  say 
She  goes  the  least  of  womankind  astray. 

To  this  fair  creature  I'd  sometimes  retire; 
Her  conversation  would  new  joys  inspire; 
Give  life  an  edge  so  keen,  no  surly  care 
Would  venture  to  assault  my  soul,  or  dare 
Near  my  retreat  to  hide  one  secret  snare. 
But  so  divine,  so  noble  a  repast 
I'd  seldom,  and  with  moderation,  taste: 
For  highest  cordials  all  their  virtue  lose, 
By  a  too  frequent  and  too  bold  an  use; 


JOHN    POMFRET 

And  what  would  cheer  the  spirits  in  distress 
Kuins  our  health  when  taken  to  excess. 

VI.  His  Peaceable  Life 

Pd  be  concerned  in  no  litigious  jar; 

Beloved  by  all,  not  vainly  popular. 

Whate'er  assistance  I  had  power  to  bring 

T'  oblige  my  company,  or  to  serve  my  king, 

Whene'er  they  called,  I'd  readily  afford, 

My  tongue,  my  pen,  my  counsel,  or  my  sword. 

Lawsuits  I'd  shun,  with  as  much  studious  care. 

As  I  would  dens  where  hungry  lions  are; 

And  rather  put  up  injuries,  than  be 

A  plague  to  him  who'd  be  a  plague  to  me. 

I  value  quiet  at  a  price  too  great 

To  give  for  my  revenge  so  dear  a  rate: 

For  what  do  we  by  all  our  bustle  gain. 

But  counterfeit  delight  for  real  pain? 

VII.  His  Happy  Death 

If  Heaven  a  date  of  many  years  would  give, 
Thus  I'd  in  pleasure,  ease,  and  plenty  live. 
And  as  I  near  approach [ed]  the  verge  of  life, 
Some  kind  relation  (for  I'd  have  no  wife) 
Should  take  upon  him  all  my  worldly  care 
While  I  did  for  a  better  state  prepare. 
Then  I'd  not  be  with  any  trouble  vexed. 
Nor  have  the  evening  of  my  days  perplexed; 
But  by  a  silent  and  a  peaceful  death. 
Without  a  sigh,  resign  my  aged  breath. 
And,  when  committed  to  the  dust,  I'd  have 
Few  tears,  but  friendly,  dropped  into  my  grave; 
Then  would  my  exit  so  propitious  be. 
All  men  would  wish  to  live  and  die  like  me. 


ENGLISH   POETS 

DANIEL   DEFOE 

From    THE    TRUE-BOKN   ENGLISHMAN 

The  Eomans  first  with  Julius  Caesar  came, 

Including  all  the  nations  of  that  name, 

Gauls,  Greeks,  and  Lombards,  and,  by  computation, 

Auxiliaries  or  slaves  of  every  nation. 

With  Hengist,  Saxons;  Danes  with  Sueno  came; 

In  search  of  plunder,  not  in  search  of  fame. 

Scots,  Picts,  and  Irish  from  th'  Hibernian  shore. 

And  conquering  William  brought  the  Normans  o'er. 

All  these  their  barbarous  offspring  left  behind, 

The  dregs  of  armies,  they  of  all  mankind; 

Blended  with  Britons,  who  before  .were  here. 

Of  whom  the  Welsh  ha'  blessed  the  character. 

From  this  amphibious  ill-born  mob  began 

That  vain,  ill-natured  thing,  an  Englishman. 

And  lest  by  length  of  time  it  be  pretended 
The  climate  may  this  modern  breed  ha'  mended, 
Wise  Providence,  to  keep  us  where  we  are. 
Mixes  us  daily  with  exceeding  care. 
We  have  been  Europe's  sink,  the  jakes  where  she 
Voids  all  her  offal  outcast  progeny. 
From  our  fifth  Henry's  time,  the  strolling  bands 
Of  banished  fugitives  from  neighbouring  lands 
Have  here  a  certain  sanctuary  found: 
Th'  eternal  refuge  of  the  vagabond. 
Where,  in  but  half  a  common  age  of  time, 
Borrowing  new  blood  and  manners  from  the  clime, 
Proudly  they  learn  all  mankind  to  contemn; 
And  all  their  race  are  true-born  Englishmen. 
Dutch,  Walloons,  Flemings,  Irishmen,  and  Scots, 
Vaudois,  and  Valtelins,  and  Huguenots, 
In  good  Queen  Bess's  charitable  reign. 
Supplied  us  with  three  hundred  thousand  men. 
Religion— God,  we  thank  thee!— sent  them  hither. 
Priests,  Protestants,  the  Devil  and  all  together: 


DANIEL   DEFOE 

Of  all  professions  and  of  every  trade, 
All  that  were  persecuted  or  afraid; 
Whether  for  debt  or  other  crimes  they  fled, 
David  at  Hachilah  was  still  their  head. 

The  offspring  of  this  miscellaneous  crowd. 
Had  not  their  new  plantations  long  enjoyed, 
But  they  grew  Englishmen,  and  raised  their  votes 
At  foreign  shoals  for  interloping  Scots. 
The  royal  branch  from  Pietland  did  succeed. 
With  troops  of  Scots  and  Scabs  from  ISTorth-by-Tweed. 
The  seven  first  years  of  his  pacific  reign 
Made  him  and  half  his  nation  Englishmen. 
Scots  from  the  northern  frozen  banks  of  Tay, 
With  packs  and  plods  came  whigging  all  away; 
Thick  as  the  locusts  which  in  Egypt  swarmed. 
With  pride  and  hungry  hopes  completely  armed; 
With  native  truth,  diseases,  and  no  money. 
Plundered  our  Canaan  of  the  milk  and  honey. 
Here  they  grew  quickly  lords  and  gentlemen, — 
And  all  their  race  are  true-born  Englishmen. 

The  wonder  which  remains  is  at  our  pride. 

To  value  that  which  all  wise  men  deride. 

For  Englishmen  to  boast  of  generation 

Cancels  their  knowledge,  and  lampoons  the  nation. 

A  true-born  Englishman's  a  contradiction, 

In  speech  an  irony,  in  fact  a  fiction; 

A  banter  made  to  be  a  test  of  fools. 

Which  those  that  use  it  justly  ridicules; 

A  metaphor  invented  to  express 

A  man  akin  to  all  the  universe. 


From    A   HYMN    TO    THE    PILLORY 

Hail  hieroglyphic  state-machine. 

Contrived  to  punish  fancy  in! 
Men  that  are  men  in  thee  can  feel  no  pain, 
And  all  thy  insignificants  disdain. 

Contempt,  that  false  new  word  for  shame, 

Is,  without  crime,  an  empty  name. 


ENGLISH   POETS 

A  shadow  to  amuse  mankind, 
But  never  frights  the  wise  or  well-fixed  mind: 
Virtue  despises  human  scorn, 
And  scandals  innocence  adorn. 

Sometimes,  the  air  of  scandal  to  maintain, 
Villains  look  from  thy  lofty  loops  in  vain; 
But  who  can  judge  of  crimes  by  punishment 
Where  parties  rule  and  L[ord]s  subservient? 
Justice  with  change  of  interest  learns  to  bow, 
And  what  was  merit  once  is  murder  now: 
Actions  receive  their  tincture  from  the  times, 
And  as  they  change,  are  virtues  made  or  crimes. 

Thou  art  the  state-trap  of  the  law, 
But  neither  can  keep  knaves  nor  honest  men  in  awe; 

These  are  too  hardened  in  oifence, 

And  those  upheld  by  innocence. 

Thou  art  no  shame  to  truth  and  honesty. 
Nor  is  the  character  of  such  defaced  by  thee 
Who  suffer  by  oppressive  injury. 
Shame,  like  the  exhalations  of  the  sun, 
Falls  back  where  first  the  motion  was  begun; 
And  he  who  for  no  crime  shall  on  thy  brows  appear 
Bears  less  reproach  than  they  who  placed  him  there. 

But  if  contempt  is  on  thy  face  entailed, 

Disgrace  itself  shall  be  ashamed; 
Scandal  shall  blush  that  it  has  not  prevailed 

To  blast  the  man  it  has  defamed. 
Let  all  that  merit  equal  punishment 
Stand  there  with  him,  and  we  are  all  content. 

Thou  bugbear  of  the  law,  stand  up  and  speak. 

Thy  long  misconstrued  silence  break; 
Tell  us  who  'tis  upon  thy  ridge  stands  there, 

So  full  of  fault  and  yet  so  void  of  fear; 

And  from  the  paper  in  his  hat, 

Let  all  mankind  be  told  for  what. 
Tell  them  it  was  because  he  was  too  bold, 
And  told  those  truths  which  should  not  ha'  been  told, 


JOSEPH   ADDISON  9 

Extol  the  justice  of  the  land, 
Who  punish  what  they  will  not  understand. 

Tell  them  he  stands  exalted  there 

For  speaking  what  we  would  not  hear; 

And  yet  he  might  have  been  secure 
Had  he  said  less  or  would  he  ha'  said  more. 

Tell  them  that  this  is  his  reward 

And  worse  is  yet  for  him  prepared, 
Because  his  foolish  virtue  was  so  nice 
As  not  to  sell  his  friends,  according  to  his  friends'  advice. 

And  thus  he's  an  example  made, 

To  make  men  of  their  honesty  afraid. 

That  for  the  time  to  come  they  may 

More  willingly  their  friends  betray; 
Tell  them  the  m[en]  who  placed  him  here 
Are  sc[anda]ls  to  the  times; 

But  at  a  loss  to  find  his  guilt, 

They  can't  commit  his  crimes. 


JOSEPH   ADDISON 

From   THE   CAMPAIGN 

Behold  in  awful  march  and  dread  array 
The  long-extended  squadrons  shape  their  way! 
Death,  in  approaching  terrible,  imparts 
An  anxious  horror  to  the  bravest  hearts; 
Yet  do  their  beating  breasts  demand  the  strife. 
And  thirst  of  glory  quells  the  love  of  life. 
No  vulgar  fears  can  British  minds  control: 
Heat  of  revenge  and  noble  pride  of  soul 
O'er  look  the  foe,  advantaged  by  his  post. 
Lessen  his  numbers,  and  contract  his  host; 
Though  fens  and  floods  possessed  the  middle  space. 
That  unprovoked  they  would  have  feared  to  pass. 
Nor  fens  nor  floods  can  stop  Britannia's  bands 
When  her  proud  foe  ranged  on  their  borders  stands. 


10  ENGLISH   POETS 

But,  O  my  Muse,  what  numbers  wilt  thou  find 
To  sing  the  furious  troops  in  battle  joined! 
Methinks  I  hear  the  drum's  tumultuous  sound 
The  victor's  shouts  and  dying  groans  confound, 
The  dreadful  burst  of  cannon  rend  the  skies, 
And  all  the  thunder  of  the  battle  rise ! 
'Twas  then  great  Marlborough's  mighty  soul  was  proved, 
That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmoved, 
Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair. 
Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war: 
In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  surveyed. 
To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 
Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage. 
And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage. 
So  when  an  angel  by  divine  command 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 
Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  passed, 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast. 
And,  pleased  th'  Almighty's  orders  to  perform, 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm. 


[DIVINE    ODE] 


The  spacious  firmament  on  high. 
With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky. 
And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame^ 
Their  great  Original  proclaim. 
Th'  unwearied  sun  from  day  to  day 
Does  his  Creator's  power  display; 
And  publishes  to  every  land 
The  work  of  an  almighty  hand. 


Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail. 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale; 
And  nightly  to  the  listening  earth 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth: 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  bum, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 


MATTHEW    PRIOR  11 

Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 

And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

m 

What  though  in  solemn  silence  all 
Move  round  the  dark  terrestrial  ball; 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found? 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice : 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
'The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine.' 


MATTHEW   PRIOR 
TO  A   CHILD   OF   QUALITY  FIVE   YEARS   OLD 

THE  AUTHOR  FORTY 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band 
That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters. 

Were  summoned,  by  her  high  command. 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  amongst  the  rest  I  took, 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 

Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  look 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obeyed. 

Nor  quality  nor  reputation 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell ; 
Dear  five  years  old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For  while  she  makes  her  silk-worms  beds 

With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear. 
Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads 

In  papers  round  her  baby's  hair. 


12  ENGLISH   POETS 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame; 

For  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 

Then,  too,  alas !  when  she  shall  tear 

The  lines  some  younger  rival  sends, 
She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 

And  we  shall  still  continue  friends; 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 
'Tis  so  ordained  (would  fate  but  mend  it  I) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love 
When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 


TO    A   LADY 

SHE  REFUSING  TO  CONTINUE  A  DISPUTE  WITH  ME,  AND  LEAVINQ 
ME    IN    THE    ARGUMENT 

Spare,  generous  victor,  spare  the  slave 

Who  did  unequal  war  pursue. 
That  more  than  triumph  he  might  have 

In  being  overcome  by  you. 

In  the  dispute  whate'er  I  said, 

My  heart  was  by  my  tongue  belied, 

And  in  my  looks  you  might  have  read 
How  much  I  argued  on  your  side. 

You,  far  from  danger  as  from  fear. 
Might  have  sustained  an  open  fight: 

For  seldom  your  opinions  err; 
Your  eyes  are  always  in  the  right. 

Why,  fair  one,  would  you  not  rely 

On  reason's  force  with  beauty's  joined? 

Could  I  their  prevalence  deny, 
I  must  at  once  be  deaf  and  blind. 

Alas!  not  hoping  to  subdue, 

I  only  to  the  fight  aspired; 
To  keep  the  beauteous  foe  in  view 

Was  all  the  glory  I  desired. 


MATTHEW  PKIOR  13 

But  she,  howe'er  of  victory  sure, 

Contemns  the  wreath  too  long  delayed, 

And,  armed  with  more  immediate  power, 
Calls  cruel  silence  to  her  aid. 

Deeper  to  wound,  she  shuns  the  fight : 
She  drops  her  arms,  to  gain  the  field; 

Secures  her  conquest  by  her  flight, 

And  triumphs  when  she  seems  to  yield. 

So  when  the  Parthian  turned  his  steed 
And  from  the  hostile  camp  withdrew, 

With  cruel  skill  the  backward  reed 
He  sent,  and  as  he  fled  he  slew. 

[THE   DYING   HADRIAN   TO   HIS    SOUL] 

Poor,  little,  pretty,  fluttering  thing, 

Must  we  no  longer  live  together? 
And  dost  thou  prune  thy  trembling  wing 

To  take  thy  flight,  thou  know'st  not  whither? 
Thy  humorous  vein,  thy  pleasing  folly, 

Lies  all  neglected,  all  forgot: 
And  pensive,  wavering,  melancholy, 

Thou  dread'st  and  hop'st,  thou  know'st  not  what. 


A    BETTER    ANSWER 

Dear  Chloe,  how  blubbered  is  that  pretty  face! 

Thy  cheek  all  on  fire,  and  thy  hair  all  uncurled ! 
Prithee  quit  this  caprice,  and  (as  old  Falstaff  says) 

Let  us  e'en  talk  a  little  like  folks  of  this  world. 

How  canst  thou  presume  thou  hast  leave  to  destroy 
The  beauties  which  Venus  but  lent  to  thy  keeping? 

Those  looks  were  designed  to  inspire  love  and  joy; 
More  ordinary  eyes  may  serve  people  for  weeping. 

To  be  vexed  at  a  trifle  or  two  that  I  writ. 

Your  judgment  at  once  and  my  passion  you  wrong; 

You  take  that  for  fact  which  will  scarce  be  found  wit: 
Od's  life!  must  one  swear  to  the  truth  of  a  song? 


14  ENGLISH   POETS 

What  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write,  shows 
The  difference  there  is  betwixt  nature  and  art: 

I  court  others  in  verse,  but  I  love  thee  in  prose; 

And  they  have  my  whimsies,  but  thou  hast  my  heart. 

The  god  of  us  verse-men  (you  know,  child),  the  sun. 
How  after  his  journeys  he  sets  up  his  rest; 

If  at  morning  o'er  earth  'tis  his  fancy  to  run. 
At  night  he  reclines  on  his  Thetis's  breast. 

So  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day, 
To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come: 

No  matter  what  beauties  I  saw  in  my  way; 

They  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my  home. 

Then  finish,  dear  Chloe,  this  pastoral  war. 
And  let  us  like  Horace  and  Lydia  agree; 

For  thou  art  a  girl  as  much  brighter  than  her 
As  he  was  a  poet  sublimer  than  me. 


BERNARD   DE    MANDEVILLE 

From  THE  GEUMBLING  HIVE;  OE,  KNAVES 
TUENED    HONEST 

A  spacious  hive,  well  stocked  with  bees. 

That  lived  in  luxury  and  ease; 

And  yet  as  famed  for  laws  and  arms. 

As  yielding  large  and  early  swarms; 

Was  counted  the  great  nursery 

Of  sciences  and  industry. 

Vast  numbers  thronged  the  fruitful  hive; 
Yet  those  vast  numbers  made  'em  thrive; 
Millions  endeavouring  to  supply 
Each  others  lust  and  vanity. 
While  other  millions  were  employed 
To  see  their  handiworks  destroyed; 


BERNARD    DE    MANDEVILLE  15 

They  furnished  half  the  universe, 

Yet  had  more  work  than  labourers. 

Some  with  vast  stocks,  and  little  pains. 

Jumped  into  business  of  great  gains; 

And  some  were  damned  to  scythes  and  spadee, 

And  all  those  hard  laborious  trades 

Where  willing  wretches  daily  sweat 

And  wear  out  strength  and  limbs,  to  eat; 

While  others  followed  mysteries 

To  which  few  folks  bind  prentices, 

That  want  no  stock  but  that  of  brass, 

And  may  set  up  without  a  cross, — 

As  sharpers,  parasites,  pimps,  players. 

Pickpockets,  coiners,  quacks,  soothsayers, 

And  all  those  that  in  enmity 

With  downright  working,  cunningly 

Convert  to  their  own  use  the  labour 

Of  their  good-natured  heedless  neighbour. 

These  were  called  knaves ;  but  bar  the  name. 

The  grave  industrious  were  the  same: 

All  trades  and  places  knew  some  cheat, 

No  calling  was  without  deceit. 


Thus  every  part  was  full  of  vice. 
Yet  the  whole  mass  a  paradise : 
Flattered  in  peace,  and  feared  in  wars, 
They  were  th'  esteem  of  foreigners. 
And  lavish  of  their  wealth  and  lives. 
The  balance  of  all  other  hives. 
Such  were  the  blessings  of  that  state; 
Their  crimes  conspired  to  make  them  great. 


The  root  of  evil,  avarice. 

That  damned,  ill-natured,  baneful  vice, 

Was  slave  to  prodigality, 
That  noble  sin;  whilst  luxury 
Employed  a  million  of  the  poor, 
And  odious  pride  a  million  more; 
Envy  itself,  and  vanity. 
Were  ministers  of  industry; 


16  ENGLISH   POETS 

Their  darling  folly — fickleness 

In  diet,  furniture,  and  dress — 

That  strange,  ridiculous  vice,  was  made 

The  very  wheel  that  turned  the  trade. 

Their  laws  and  clothes  were  equally 

Objects  of  mutability; 

For  what  was  well  done  for  a  time, 

In  half  a  year  became  a  crime. 


How  vain  is  mortal  happiness ! 

Had  they  but  known  the  bounds  of  bliss, 

And  that  perfection  here  below 

Is  more  than  gods  can  well  bestow, 

The  grumbling  brutes  had  been  content 

With  ministers  and  government. 

But  they,  at  every  ill  success, 

Like  creatures  lost  without  redress, 

Cursed  politicians,  armies,  fleets; 

While  every  one  cried,  'Damn  the  cheats!' 

And  would,  though  conscious  of  his  own, 

In  others  barbarously  bear  none. 

One  that  had  got  a  princely  store 
By  cheating  master,  king,  and  poor, 
Dared  cry  aloud,  'The  land  must  sink 
For  all  its  fraud' ;  and  whom  d'ye  think 
The  sermonizing  rascal  chid? 
A  glover  that  sold  lamb  for  kid ! 

The  least  thing  was  not  done  amiss, 
Or  crossed  the  public  business, 
But  all  the  rogues  cried  brazenly, 
'Good  Gods,  had  we  but  honesty!' 
Mercury  smiled  at  th'  impudence, 
And  others  called  it  want  of  sense, 
Always  to  rail  at  what  they  loved: 
But  Jove,  with  indignation  moved, 
At  last  in  anger  swore  he'd  rid 
The  bawling  hive  of  fraud ;  and  did. 
The  very  moment  it  departs, 
And  honesty  fills  all  their  hearts, 
There  shews  'em,  like  th'  instructive  tree. 
Those  crimes  which  they're  ashamed  to  see, 


BERNARD    DE    MANDEVILLE  17 

Which  now  in  silence  they  confess 

By  blushing  at  their  ugliness; 

Like  children  that  would  hide  their  faults 

And  by  their  colour  own  their  thoughts. 

Imagining  when  they're  looked  upon, 

That  others  see  what  they  have  done. 

But,  O  ye  Gods !  what  consternation ! 
How  vast  and  sudden  was  th'  alternation! 
In  half  an  hour,  the  nation  round, 
Meat  fell  a  penny  in  the  pound. 

Now  mind  the  glorious  hive,  and  see 
How  honesty  and  trade  agree. 
The  show  is  gone;  it  thins  apace. 
And  looks  with  quite  another  face. 
For  'twas  not  only  that  they  went 
By  whom  vast  sums  were  yearly  spent; 
But  multitudes  that  lived  on  them, 
Were  daily  forced  to  do  the  same. 
In  vain  to  other  trades  they'd  fly; 
All  were  o'erstocked  accordingly. 

As  pride  and  luxury  decrease. 

So  by  degrees  they  leave  the  seas. 

Not  merchants  now,  but  companies. 

Remove  whole  manufactories. 

All  arts  and  crafts  neglected  lie : 

Content,  the  bane  of  industry, 

Makes  'em  admire  their  homely  store, 

And  neither  seek  nor  covet  more. 

So  few  in  the  vast  hive  remain, 

The  hundredth  part  they  can't  maintain 

Against  th'  insults  of  numerous  foes, 

Whom  yet  they  valiantly  oppose. 

Till  some  well-fenced  retreat  is  found, 

And  here  they  die  or  stand  their  ground. 

No  hireling  in  their  army's  known; 

But  bravely  fighting  for  their  own 

Their  courage  and  integrity 

At  last  were  crowned  with  victory. 

They  triumphed  not  without  their  cost. 

For  many  thousand  bees  were  lost. 


18  ENGLISH   POETS 

Hardened  with  toil  and  exercise, 
They  counted  ease  itself  a  vice; 
Which  so  improved  their  temperance 
That,  to  avoid  extravagance, 
They  flew  into  a  hollow  tree, 
Blessed  with  content  and  honesty. 

The  Moral: 

Then  leave  complaints :  fools  only  strive 
To  make  a  great  an  honest  hive. 
T'  enjoy  the  world's  conveniences, 
Be  famed  in  war,  yet  live  in  ease. 
Without  great  vices,  is  a  vain 
Utopia  seated  in  the  brain. 


ISAAC   WATTS 
THE  HAZAED  OF  LOVING  THE   CREATUEES 

Where'er  my  flattering  passions  rove, 

I  find  a  lurking  snare; 
'Tis  dangerous 'to  let  loose  our  love 

Beneath  th'  eternal  fair. 

Souls  whom  the  tie  of  friendship  binds. 
And   things   that   share   our   blood. 

Seize  a  large  portion  of  our  minds. 
And  leave  the  less  for  God. 

Nature  has  soft  but  powerful  bands, 

And  reason  she  controls ; 
While  children  with  their  little  hands 

Hang  closest  to  our  souls. 

Thoughtless  they  act  th'  old  Serpent's  part; 

What  tempting  things  they  be ! 
Lord,  how  they  twine  about  our  heart. 

And  draw  it  oflF  from  Thee ! 


ISAAC   WATTS  19 

Our  hasty  wills  rush  blindly  on 

Where  rising  passion  rolls, 
And  thus  we  make  our  fetters  strong 

To  bind  our  slavish  souls. 

Dear  Sovereign,  break  these  fetters  off, 

And  set  our  spirits  free; 
God  in  Himself  is  bliss  enough; 

For  we  have  all  in  Thee. 


THE   DAY   OF   JUDGMENT 

When  the  fierce  north-wind  with  his  airy  forces 
Kears  up  the  Baltic  to  a  foaming  fury; 
And  the  red  lightning  with  a  storm  of  hail  comes 
Rushing  amain  down; 

How  the  poor  sailors  stand  amazed  and  tremble, 
While  the  hoarse  thunder,  like  a  bloody  trumpet, 
Roars  a  loud  onset  to  the  gaping  waters, 
Quick  to  devour  them. 

Such  shall  the  noise  be,  and  the  wild  disorder 

(If  things  eternal  may  be  like  these  earthly). 

Such  the  dire  terror  when  the  great  Archangel 

Shakes  the  creation; 

Tears  the  strong  pillars  of  the  vault  of  heaven, 
Breaks  up  old  marble,  the  repose  of  princes. 
See  the  graves  open,  and  the  bones  arising. 
Flames  all  around  them! 

Hark,  the  shrill  outcries  of  the  guilty  wretches! 
Lively  bright  horror  and  amazing  anguish 
Stare  through  their  eyelids,  while  the  living  worm  lies 
Gnawing  within  them. 

Thoughts  like  old  vultures,  prey  upon  their  heart-strings, 
And  the  smart  twinges,  when  the  eye  beholds  the 
Lofty  Judge  frowning,  and  a  flood  of  vengeance 
Rolling  afore  Him. 


20  ENGLISH   POETS 

Hopeless  immortals!  how  they  scream  and  shiver, 
While  devils  push  them  to  the  pit  wide-yawning 
Hideous  and  gloomy,  to  receive  them  headlong 
Down  to  the  centre! 

Stop  here,  my  fancy:  (all  away,  ye  horrid 
Doleful  ideas!)  come,  arise  to  Jesus, 
How  He  sits  God-like!  and  the  saints  around  Him 
Throned,  yet  adoring! 

O  may  I  sit  there  when  He  comes  triumphant, 
Dooming  the  nations !  then  arise  to  glory. 
While  our  hosannas  all  along  the  passage 
Shout  the  Redeemer. 


O   GOD,    OUR   HELP   IN   AGES   PAST 

O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past. 
Our  hope  for  years  for  to  come, 

Our  shelter  from  the  stormy  blast. 
And  our  eternal  home: 

Under  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne, 
Thy  saints  have  dwelt  secure; 

Sufficient  is  Thine  arm  alone. 
And  our  defense  is  sure. 

Before  the  hills  in  order  stood. 
Or  earth  received  her  frame, 

From  everlasting  Thou  art  God, 
To  endless  years  the  same. 

A  thousand  ages  in  Thy  sight 

Are  like  an  evening  gone; 
Short  as  the  watch  that  ends  the  night 

Before  the  rising  sun. 

Time,  like  an  ever-rolling  stream, 

Bears  all  its  sons  away; 
They  fly  forgotten,  as  a  dream 

Dies  at  the  opening  day. 


ISAAC   WATTS  21 

O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past; 

Our  hope  for  years  to  come; 
Be  thou  our  guard  while  troubles  last, 

And  our  eternal  home ! 


A   CEADLE   HYMN" 

Hush!  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber, 

Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed ! 
Heavenly  blessings  without  number 

Gently  falling  on  thy  head. 

Sleep,  my  babe;  thy  food  and  raiment. 
House  and  home,  thy  friends  provide; 

All  without  thy  care  or  payment: 
All  thy  wants  are  well  supplied. 

How  much  better  thou'rt  attended 
Than  the  Son  of  God  could  be, 

When  from  Heaven  He  descended 
And  became  a  child  like'  thee ! 

Soft  and  easy  is  thy  cradle: 

Coarse  and  hard  thy  Saviour  lay, 

When  His  birthplace  was  a  stable 
And  His  softest  bed  was  hay. 

Blessed  babe!  what  glorious  features — 
Spotless  fair,  divinely  bright! 

Must  He  dwell  with  brutal  creatures? 
How  could  angels  bear  the  sight  ? 

Was  there  nothing  but  a  manger 

Cursed  sinners  could  afford 
To  receive  the  heavenly  stranger? 

Did  they  thus  affront  their  Lord? 

Soft,  my  child :  I  did  not  chide  thee. 
Though  my  song  might  sound  too  hard; 

'Tis  thy  mother  sits  beside  thee. 
And  her  arms  shall  be  thy  guard. 


22  ENGLISH   POETS 

Yet  to  read  the  shameful  story- 
How  the  Jews  abused  their  King, 

How  they  served  the  Lord  of  Glory, 
Makes  me  angry  while  I  sing. 

See  the  kinder  shepherds  round  Him, 

Telling'  wonders  from  the  sky ! 
Where  they  sought  Him,  there  they  found  Him, 

With  His  virgin  mother  by. 

See  the  lovely  babe  a-dressing; 

Lovely  infant,  how  He  smiled! 
When  He  wept,  the  mother's  blessing 

Soothed  and  hushed  the  holy  child. 

Lo,  He  slumbers  in  His  manger, 

Where  the  horned  oxen  fed ; 
Peace,  my  darling:  here's  no  danger. 

Here's  no  ox  a-near  thy  bed. 

'Twas  to  save  thee,  child,  from  dying. 
Save  my  dear  from  burning  flame. 

Bitter  groans  and  endless  crying. 
That  thy  blest  Redeemer  came. 

May'st  thou  live  to  know  and  fear  him, 
Trust  and  love  Him  all  thy  days; 

Then  go  dwell  forever  near  Him, 
See  His  face,  and  sing  His  praise! 


ALEXANDER   POPE  23 

ALEXANDER   POPE 

From   AN   ESSAY   ON   CRITICISM 

'Tis  hard  to  say,  if  greater  want  of  skill 
Appear  in  writing  or  in  judging  ill; 
But,  of  the  two,  less  dangerous  is  th'  offense 
To  tire  our  patience,  than  mislead  our  sense. 
Some  few  in  that,  but  numbers  err  in  this, 
Ten  censure  wrong  for  one  who  writes  amiss; 
A  fool  might  once  himself  alone  expose. 
Now  one  in  verse  makes  many  more  in  prose. 

'Tis  with  our  judgments  as  our  watches,  none 
Go  just  alike,  yet  each  believes  his  own. 
In  poets  as  true  genius  is  but  rare. 
True  taste  as  seldom  is  the  critic's  share; 
Both  must  alike  from  heaven  derive  their  light, 
These  born  to  judge,  as  well  as  those  to  write. 
Let  such  teach  others  who  themselves  excel. 
And  censure  freely  who  have  written  well. 
Authors  are  partial  to  their  wit,  'tis  true. 
But  are  not  critics  to  their  judgment  too? 

But  you  who  seek  to  give  and  merit  fame 

And  justly  bear  a  critic's  noble  name. 

Be  sure  yourself  and  your  own  reach  to  know. 

How  far  your  genius,  taste,  and  learning  go ; 

Launch  not  beyond  your  depth,  but  be  discreet. 

And  mark  that  point  where  sense  and  dulness  meet. 

First  follow  Nature,  and  your  judgment  frame 
By  her  just  standard,  which  is  still  the  same : 
Unerring  Nature,  still  divinely  bright. 
One  clear,   unchanged,  and  universal  light, 
Life,  force,  and  beauty,  must  to  all  impart. 
At  once  the  source,  and  end,  and  test  of  art. 
Art  from  that  fund  each  just  supply  provides, 
Works  without  show,  and  without  pomp  presides: 


24  ENGLISH   POETS 

In  some  fair  body  thus  th'  informing  soul 
With  spirit  feeds,  with  vigour  fills  the  whole. 
Each  motion  guides,  and  every  nerve  sustains; 
Itself  unseen,  but  in  th'  effects,  remains. 
Some,  to  whom  Heaven  in  wit  has  been  profuse, 
Want  as  much  more,  to  turn  it  to  its  use; 
For  wit  and  judgment  often  are  at  strife, 
Though  meant  each  other's  aid,  like  man  and  wife. 
'Tis  more  to  guide  than  spur  the  Muse's  steed; 
Eestrain  his  fury,  than  provoke  his  speed; 
The  winged  courser,  like  a  generous  horse, 
Shows  most  true  mettle  when  you  check  his  course. 

Those  rules  of  old  discovered,  not  devised, 
Are  Nature  still,  but  Nature  methodized; 
Nature,  like  liberty,  is  but  restrained 
By  the  same  laws  which  first  herself  ordained. 

You,  then,  whose  judgment  the  right  course  would 
steer. 
Know  well  each  ancient's  proper  character; 
His  fable,  subject,  scope  in  every  page; 
Eeligion,  country,  genius  of  his  age: 
Without  all  these  at  once  before  your  eyes. 
Cavil  you  may,  but  never  criticise. 
Be  Homer's  works  your  study  and  delight, 
Bead  them  by  day,  and  meditate  by  night; 
Thence  form  your  judgment,  thence  your  maxims  bring, 
And  trace  the  Muses  upward  to  their  spring. 
Still  with  itself  compared,  his  text  peruse; 
And  let  your  comment  be  the  Mantuan  Muse._ 

When  first  young  Maro  in  his  boundless  mind 
A  work  t'  outlast  immortal  Bome  designed, 
Perhaps  he  seemed  above  the  critic's  law, 
And  but  from  nature's  fountains  scorned  to  draw: 
But  when  t'  examine  every  part  he  came, 
Nature  and  Homer  were,  he  found,  the  same. 
Convinced,  amazed,  he  checks  the  bold  design; 
And  rules  as  strict  his  laboured  work  confine 
As  if  the  Stagirite  o'erlooked  each  line. 
Learn  hence  for  ancient  rules  a  just  esteem; 
To  copy  nature  is  to  copy  them. 

Some  beauties  yet  no  precepts  can  declare, 
For  there's  a  happiness  as  well  as  care. 


ALEXANDER   POPE 

Music  resembles  poetry,  in  each 

Are  nameless  graces  which  no  methods  teach, 

And  which  a  master-hand  alone  can  reach. 

If,  where  the  rules  not  far  enough  extend, 

(Since  rules  were  made  but  to  promote  their  end) 

Some  lucky  license  answer  to  the  full 

Th'  intent  proposed,  that  license  is  a  rule. 

Thus  Pegasus,  a  nearer  way  to  take. 

May  boldly  deviate  from  the  common  track; 

From  vulgar  bounds  with  brave  disorder  part, 

And  snatch  a  grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art, 

Which  without  passing  through  the  judgment,  gains 

The  heart,  and  all  its  end  at  once  attains. 

In  prospects  thus,  some  objects  please  our  eyes, 

Which  out  of  nature's  common  order  rise. 

The  shapeless  rock,  or  hanging  precipice. 

Great  wits  sometimes  may  gloriously  offend. 

And  rise  to  faults  true  critics  dare  not  mend. 

But  tho'  the  ancients  thus  their  rules  invade, 

(As  kings  dispense  with  laws  themselves  have  made) 

Moderns,  beware!  or  if  you  must  offend 

Against  the  precept,  ne'er  transgress  its  end; 

Let  it  be  seldom  and  compelled  by  need ; 

And  have,  at  least,  their  precedent  to  plead. 

The  critic  else  proceeds  without  remorse, 

Seizes  your  fame,  and  puts  his  laws  in  force. 

I  know  there  are,  to  whose  presumptuous  thoughts 
Those  freer  beauties,  e'en  in  them,  seem  faults. 
Some  figures  monstrous  and  misshaped  appear. 
Considered  singly,  or  beheld  too  near, 
Which,  but  proportioned  to  their  light  or  place, 
Due  distance  reconciles  to  form  and  grace. 
A  prudent  chief  not  always  must  display 
His  powers  in  equal  ranks,  and  fair  array, 
But  with  th'  occasion  and  the  place  comply, 
Conceal  his  force,  nay,  seem  sometimes  to  fly. 
Those  oft  are  stratagems  which  errors  seem, 
Nor  is  it  Homer  nods,  but  we  that  dream. 


A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing; 
Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierian  spring : 


26  ENGLISH   POETS 

There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain, 
And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again. 
Fired  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse  imparts, 
In  fearless  youth  we  tempt  the  heights  of  arts. 
While  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind, 
Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  behind; 
But  more  advanced,  behold  with  strange  surprise 
New  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise ! 
So  pleased  at  first  the  towering  Alps  we  try, 
Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread  the  sky, 
Th'  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 
And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last; 
But,  those  attained,  we  tremble  to 'survey 
The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthened  way, 
Th'  increasing  prospects  tire  our  wandering  eyes, 
Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise ! 

A  perfect  judge  will  read  each  work  of  wit 
With  the  same  spirit  that  its  author  writ : 
Survey  the  whole,  nor  seek  slight  faults  to  find 
Where  nature  moves,  and  rapture  warms  the  mind; 
Nor  lose,  for  that  malignant  dull  delight. 
The  gen'rous  pleasure  to  be  charmed  with  wit. 
But  in  such  lays  as  neither  ebb,  nor  flow, 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  low. 
That  shunning  faults,  one  quiet  tenor  keep ; 
We  cannot  blame  indeed — but  we  may  sleep. 
In  wit,  as  nature,  what  affects  our  hearts 
Is  not  th'  exactness  of  peculiar  parts: 
'Tis  not  a  lip,  or  eye,  we  beauty  call. 
But  the  joint  force  and  full  result  of  all. 
Thus  when  we  view  some  well-proportioned  dome, 
(The  world's  just  wonder,  and  e'en  thine,  O  Eome!) 
No  single  parts  unequally  surprise. 
All  comes  united  to  th'  admiring  eyes; 
No  monstrous  height,  or  breadth,  or  length  appear; 
The  whole  at  once  is  bold,  and  regular. 

Whoever  thinks  a  faultless  piece  to  see. 
Thinks  what  ne'er  was,  nor  is,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 
In  every  work  regard  the  writer's  end, 
Since  none  can  compass  more  than  they  intend; 
And  if  the  means  be  just,  the  conduct  true, 
Applause,  in  spite  of  trivial  faults,  is  due; 


ALEXANDER   POPE  27 

As  men  of  breeding,  sometimes  men  of  wit, 

T'  avoid  great  errors,  must  the  less  commit : 

Neglect  the  rules  each  verbal  critic  lays, 

For  not  to  know  some  triiles,  is  a  praise. 

Most  critics,  fond  of  some  subservient  art. 

Still  make  the  whole  depend  upon  a  part: 

They  talk  of  principles,  but  notions  prize, 

And  all  to  one  loved  folly  sacrifice. 

Once  on  a  time.  La  Mancha's  knight,  they  say, 

A  certain  bard  encountering  on  the  way, 

Discoursed  in  terms  as  just,  with  looks  as  sage. 

As  e'er  could  Dennis  of  the  Grecian  stage; 

Concluding  all  were  desperate  sots  and  fools. 

Who  durst  depart  from  Aristotle's  rules. 

Our  author,  happy  in  a  judge  so  nice. 

Produced  his  play,  and  begged  the  knight's  advice; 

Made  him  observe  the  subject,  and  the  plot. 

The  manners,  passions,  unities,  what  not  ? 

All  which,  exact  to  rule,  were  brought  about. 

Were  but  a  combat  in  the  lists  left  out. 

'What!  leave  the  combat  out?'  exclaims  the  knight; 

Yes,  or  we  must  renounce  the  Stagirite. 

'Not  so,  by  Heaven'  (he  answers  in  a  rage), 

'Knights,  squires,  and  steeds,  must  enter  on  the  stage.' 

So  vast  a  throng  the  stage  can  ne'er  contain. 

'Then  build  a  new,  or  act  it  in  a  plain.' 

Thus  critics,  of  less  judgment  than  caprice. 

Curious  not  knowing,  not  exact  but  nice. 

Form  short  ideas;  and  oifend  in  arts 

(As  most  in  manners)  by  a  love  to  parts. 

Some  to  conceit  alone  their  taste  confine. 
And  glitt'ring  thoughts  struck  out  at  every  line; 
Pleased  with  a  work  where  nothing's  just  or  fit; 
One  glaring  chaos  and  wild  heap  of  wit. 
Poets  like  painters,  thus  unskilled  to  trace 
The  naked  nature  and  the  living  grace. 
With  gold  and  jewels  cover  every  part. 
And  hide  with  ornaments  their  want  of  art. 
True  wit  is  nature  to  advantage  dressed, 
What  oft  was  thought,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed; 
Something,  whose  truth  convinced  at  sight  we  find. 
That  gives  us  back  the  image  of  our  mind. 


28  ENGLISH   POETS 

As  shades  more  sweetly  recommend  the  light, 
So  modest  plainness  sets  off  sprightly  wit. 
Eor  works  may  have  more  wit  than  does  'em  good. 
As  bodies  perish  through  excess  of  blood. 

Others  for  language  all  their  care  express, 
And  value  books,  as  women,  men,  for  dress : 
Their  praise  is  still, — the  style  is  excellent; 
The  sense,  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 
Words  are  like  leaves ;  and  where  they  most  abound, 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found. 
False  eloquence,  like  the  prismatic  glass, 
Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  every  place; 
The  face  of  nature  we  no  more  survey, 
All  glares  alike,  without  distinction  gay : 
But  true  expression,  like  th'  unchanging  sun, 
Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon. 
It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none. 
Expression  is  the  dress  of  thought,  and  still 
Appears  more  decent,  as  more  suitable; 
A  vile  conceit  in  pompous  words  expressed, 
Is  like  a  clown  in  regal  purple  dressed : 
For  different  styles  with  different  subjects  sort. 
As  several  garbs  with  country,  town,  and  court. 
Some  by  old  words  to  fame  have  made  pretence, 
Ancients  in  phrase,  mere  moderns  in  their  sense; 
Such  laboured  nothings,  in  so  strange  a  style. 
Amaze  th'  unlearn'd,  and  make  the  learned  smile. 
Unlucky,  as  Fungoso  in  the  play, 
These  sparks  with  awkward  vanity  display 
What  the  fine  gentleman  wore  yesterday; 
And  but  so  mimic  ancient  wits  at  best. 
As  apes  our  grandsires,  in  their  doublets  dressed. 
In  words,  as  fashions,  the  same  rule  will  hold; 
Alike  fantastic,  if  too  new,  or  old : 
Be  not  the  first  by  whom  the  new  are  tried, 
Nor  yet  the  last  to  lay  the  old  aside. 

But  most  by  numbers  judge  a  poet's  song; 
And  smooth  or  rough,  with  them,  is  right  or  wrong: 
In  the  bright  Muse  though  thousand  charms  conspire, 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire; 
Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their  ear, 


ALEXANDEK   POPE  29 

Not  mend  their  minds;  as  some  to  church  repair. 

Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there. 

These  equal  syllables  alone  require. 

Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire; 

While  expletives  their  feeble  aid  do  join. 

And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line: 

While  they  ring-  round  the  same  unvaried  chimes, 

With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes; 

Where'er  you  find  'the  cooling  western  breeze,' 

In  the  next  line,  it  'whispers  through  the  trees;' 

If  crystal  streams  'with  plef^sing  murmurs  creep,' 

The  reader's  threatened  (not  in  vain)  with  'sleep': 

Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  fraught 

With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 

That,  like  a*  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along. 

Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know 

What's  roundly  smooth  or  languishingly  slow; 

And  praise  the  easy  vigour  of  a  line, 

Where  Denham's  strength,  and  Waller's  sweetness  join. 

True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 

As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learned  to  dance. 

'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  offence, 

The  sound  must  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense. 

Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 

And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  numbers  flows; 

But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore. 

The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar. 

When  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw. 

The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow; 

Not  so,  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain. 

Flies  o'er  th'  unbending  corn,  and  skims  along  the  main. 

Hear  how  Timotheus'  varied  lays  surprise. 

And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise! 

While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove 

Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love; 

Now  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow. 

Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow: 

Persians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found, 

And  the  world's  victor  stood  subdued  by  sound! 

The  power  of  music  all  our  hearts  allow, 

And  what  Timotheus  was,  is  Dryden  now. 


30  ENGLISH   POETS 

Avoid  extremes;  and  shun  the  fault  of  such, 
Who  still  are  pleased  too  little  or  too  much. 
At  every  trifle  scorn  to  take  offence, 
That  always  shows  great  pride,  or  little  sense; 
Those  heads,  as  stomachs,  are  not  sure  the  best, 
Which  nauseate  all,  and  nothing  can  digest. 
Yet  let  not  each  gay  turn  thy  rapture  move ; 
For  fools  admire,  but  men  of  sense  approve: 
As  things  seem  large  which  we  through  mists  descry, 
Dulness  is  ever  apt  to  magnify. 

Some  foreign  writers,  some  our  own  despise; 
The  ancients  only,  or  the  modems  prize. 
Thus  wit,  like  faith,  by  each  man  is  applied 
To  one  small  sect,  and  all  are  damned  beside. 
Meanly  they  seek  the  blessing  to  confine. 
And  force  that  sun  but  on  a  part  to  shine. 
Which  not  alone  the  southern  wit  sublimes, 
But  ripens  spirits  in  cold  northern  climes; 
Which  from  the  first  has  shone  on  ages  past, 
Enlights  the  present,  and  shall  warm  the  last; 
Though  each  may  feel  increases  and  decays. 
And  see  now  clearer  and  now  darker  days. 
Regard  not,  then,  if  wit  be  old  or  new, 
But  blame  the  false,  and  value  still  the  true. 

Some  ne'er  advance  a  judgment  of  their  own, 
But  catch  the  spreading  notion  of  the  town ; 
They  reason  and  conclude  by  precedent. 
And  own  stale  nonsense  which  they  ne'er  invent. 
Some  judge  of  author's  names,  not  works,  and  then 
Nor  praise  nor  blame  the  writings,  but  the  men. 
Of  all  this  servile  herd,  the  worst  is  he 
That  in  proud  dulness  joins  with  Quality. 
A   constant   critic   at   the  great   man's   board. 
To  fetch  and  carry  nonsense  for  my  Lord. 
What  woful  stuff  this  madrigal  would  be. 
In  some  starved  hackney  sonneteer,  or  me? 
But  let  a  Lord  once  own  the  happy  lines. 
How  the  wit  brightens!  how  the  style  refines! 
Before  his  sacred  name  flies  every  fault, 
And  each  exalted  stanza  teems  with  thought ! 


ALEXANDER   POPE  31 

LeaiTi  then  what  morals  critics  ought  to  show, 
For  'tis  but  half  a  judge's  task,  to  know. 
'Tis  not  enough,  taste,  judgment,  learning  join; 
In  all  you  speak,  let  truth  and  candour  shine: 
That  not  alone  what  to  your  sense  is  due 
All  may  allow;  but  seek  your  friendship  too. 

Be  silent  always  when  you  doubt  your  sense; 
And  speak,  though  sure,  with  seeming  diffidence: 
Some  positive,  persisting  fops  we  know, 
Who,  if  once  wrong,  will  needs  be  always  so ; 
But  you,  with  pleasure  own  your  errors  past, 
And  make  each  day  a  critic  on  the  last. 

'Tis  not  enough,  your  counsel  still  be  true; 
Blunt  truths  more  mischief  than  nice  falsehoods  do; 
Men  must  be  taught  as  if  you  taught  them  not, 
And  things  unknown  proposed  as  things  forgot. 
Without  good  breeding,  truth  is  disapproved; 
That  only  makes  superior  sense  beloved. 

The  bookful  blockhead,  ignorantly  read, 

With  loads  of  learned  lumber  in  his  head. 

With  his  own  tongue  still  edifies  his  ears, 

And  always  listening  to  himself  appears. 

All  books  he  reads,  and  all  he  reads  assails, 

From  Dryden's  Fables  down  to  Durfey's  Tales. 

With  him,  most  authors  steal  their  works,  or  buy; 

Garth  did  not  write  his  own  Dispensary. 

Name  a  new  play,  and  he's  the  poet's  friend, 

Nay,  showed  his  faults — but  when  would  poets  mend? 

No  place  so  sacred  from  such  fops  is  barred. 

Nor  is  Paul's  church  more  safe  than  Paul's  churchyard: 

Nay,  fly  to  altars ;  there  they'll  talk  you  dead : 

For  fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread. 

Distrustful  sense  with  modest  caution  speaks. 

It  still  looks  home,  and  short  excursions  makes; 

But  rattling  nonsense  in  full  volleys  breaks, 

And  never  shocked,  and  never  turned  aside. 

Bursts  out,  resistless,  with  a  thundering  tide. 

But  where's  the  man,  who  counsel  can  bestow. 
Still  pleased  to  teach,  and  yet  not  proud  to  know? 
Unbiassed,  or  by  favour,  or  by  spite; 
Not  dully  prepossessed,  nor  blindly  right; 


32  ENGLISH   POETS 

Though  learn'd,  well-bred;  and  though  well-bred,  sincere, 

Modestly  bold,  and  humanly  severe : 

Who  to  a  friend  his  faults  can  freely  show. 

And  gladly  praise  the  merit  of  a  foe? 

Blest  with  a  taste  exact,  yet  unconfined; 

A  knowledge  both  of  books  and  human  kind : 

Gen'rous  converse;  a  soul  exempt  from  pride; 

And  love  to  praise,  with  reason  on  his  side? 


THE   EAPE    OF    THE   LOCK 
An  Heroi-Comical  Poem 

CANTO   II 

Not  with  more  glories,  in  th'  ethereal  plain, 

The  sun  first  rises  o'er  the  purpled  main. 

Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 

Launched  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 

Fair  nymphs,  and  well-dressed  youths  around  her  shone, 

But  every  eye  was  fixed  on  her  alone. 

On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 

Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  infidels  adore. 

Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose, 

Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfixed  as  those; 

Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends; 

Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 

Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 

And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 

Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride. 

Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide; 

If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall, 

Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  'em  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind,  _ 
Nourished  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains. 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes,  we  the  birds  betray. 
Slight  lines  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey. 


ALEXANDER   POPE  33 

Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare, 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 

Th'  adventurous  baron  the  bright  locks  admired; 
He  saw,  he  wished,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way, 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends. 
Few  ask  if  fraud  or  force  attained  his  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  Heaven,  and  every  power  adored, 
But  chiefly  Love;  to  Love  an  altar  built. 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances,  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves; 
With  tender  billets-doux  he  lights  the  pyre. 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize. 
The  powers  gave  ear,  and  granted  half  his  prayer; 
The  rest  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 

But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides. 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides; 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky, 
And  softened  sounds  along  the  waters  die; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play, 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay. 
All  but  the  sylph — with  careful  thoughts  oppressed, 
Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 
He  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  air; 
The  lucid  squadrons  around  the  sails  repair; 
Soft  o'er  the  shrouds  aerial  whispers  breathe, 
That  seemed  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold. 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight. 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew, 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew. 
Dipped  in  the  richest  tincture  of  the  skies, 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes. 
While  every  beam  new  transient  colours  flings. 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their  wings. 


34  ENGLISH   POETS 

Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Sui)erior  by  the  head,  was  Ariel  placed; 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun. 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun: 

Te  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  chief  give  ear! 
Fays,  fairies,  genii,  elves,  and  demons,  hear! 
Ye  know  the  spheres,  and  various  tasks  assigned 
By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  aether  play. 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day. 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on  high. 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky. 
Some  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night. 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below. 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow. 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main. 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain; 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside. 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions  guide: 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own. 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British  throne. 

'Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair, 
Xot  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale, 
Xor  let  th'  imprisoned  essences  exhale; 
To  draw  fresh  colours  from  the  vernal  flowers; 
To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in  showers, 
A  brighter  wash ;  to  curl  their  waving  hairs. 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs; 
Xay,  oft  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow, 
To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow. 

'This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  brightest  fair 
That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  sleight; 
But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapped  in  night. 
Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law. 
Or  some  frail  china  jar  receive  a  flaw; 
Or  stain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade; 
Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade; 
Or  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace,  at  a  ball; 
Or  whether  Heaven  has  doomed  that  Shock  must  falL 


ALEXANDER   POPE  35 

Haste,  then,  ye  spirits!  to  your  charge  repair; 

The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care; 

The  drops  to  thee,  Brillante,  we  consign; 

And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine; 

Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favourite  lock ; 

Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 

To  fifty  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note. 

We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petticoat: 

Oft  have  we  known  that  sevenfold  fence  to  fail, 

Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  armed  with  ribs  of  whale; 

Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound. 

And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 

'Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge. 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large. 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  overtake  his  sins. 
Be  stopped  in  vials,  or  transfixed  with  pins; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye; 
Gums  and  pomatiims  shall  his  flight  restrain, 
While  clogged  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in  vain; 
Or  alum  styptics  with  contracting  power 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  rivelled  flower; 
Or,  as  Ixion  fixed,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill. 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow. 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below!' 

He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  descend; 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendants  of  her  ear; 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait, 
Anxious,  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 

CANTO  m 

Close  by  those  meads,  forever  crowned  with  flowers. 
Where  Thames  with  pride  surveys  his  rising  towers. 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame. 
Which  from  the  neighbouring  Hampton  takes  its  name. 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  oft  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants  and  of  nymphs  at  home; 
Here  thou,  great  Anna !  whom  three  realms  obey, 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 


36  ENGLISH   POETS 

Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort, 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court; 
In  various  talk  th'  instructive  hours  they  passed, 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  Queen, 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen ; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes; 
At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 
Sniiff,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat, 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 
Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day. 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray; 
The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign, 
And  wretches  hang  that  jurymen  may  dine; 
The  merchant  from  th'  Exchange  returns  in  peace, 
And  the  long  labours  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites. 
Burns  to  encounter  two  adventurous  knights. 
At  ombre  singly  to  decide  their  doom; 
And  swells  her  breast  with  conquests  yet  to  come. 
Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms  to  join, 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine. 
Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card: 
First,  Ariel  perched  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then  each,  according  to  the  rank  they  bore; 
For  sylphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race, 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold,  four  kings  in  majesty  revered. 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  f orky  beard ; 
And  four  fair  queens  whose  hands  sustain  a  flower, 
Th'  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  power; 
Four  knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band. 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their  hand; 
And  parti-coloured  troops,  a  shining  train. 
Draw  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 

The  skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with  care: 
Let  spades  be  trumps!  she  said,  and  trumps  they  were. 

Now  moved  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  lord! 
Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the  board. 


ALEXANDER   POPE  37 

As  many  more  Manillio  forced  to  yield 
And  marched  a  victor  from  the  verdant  field. 
Him  Basto  followed,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gained  but  one  trump  and  one  plebeian  card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years, 
The  hoary  Majesty  of  Spades  appears. 
Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  revealed, 
The  rest,  his  many-coloured  robe  concealed. 
The  rebel  knave,  who  dares  his  prince  engage. 
Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 
Even  mighty  Pam,  that  kings  and  queens  o'erthrew, 
And  mowed  down  armies  in  the  fights  of  Loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war!  now  destitute  of  aid, 
Falls  undistinguished  by  the  victor  spade! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield; 
Now  to  the  baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades, 
The  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  spades; 
The  club's  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died. 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien,  and  barbarous  pride. 
What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head. 
His  giant  limbs,  in  state  unwieldy  spread ; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous  robe, 
And,  of  all  monarchs,  only  grasps  the  globe  ? 

The  baron  now  his  diamonds  pours  apace; 
Th'  embroidered  king  who  shows  but  half  his  face, 
And  his  refulgent  queen,  with  powers  combined, 
Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  diamonds,  hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen, 
With  throngs  promiscuous  strew  the  level  green. 
Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs, 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons. 
With  like  confusion  different  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye. 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall. 
In  heaps  on  heaps;  one  fate  o'erwhelms  them  all. 

The  knave  of  diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts. 
And  wins  (oh  shameful  chance!)  the  queen  of  hearts. 
At  this  the  blood  the  virgin's  cheek  forsook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look; 
She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill. 
Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codille. 


38  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distempered  state) 
On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate. 
An  ace  of  hearts  steps  forth ;  the  king  unseen 
Lurked  in  her  hand,  and  mourned  his  captive  queen: 
He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the  sky; 
The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply. 

Oh  thoughtless  mortals !  ever  blind  to  fate,. 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden,  these  honours  shall  be  snatched  away, 
And  cursed  forever  this  victorious  day. 

For  lo !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is  crowned, 
The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round; 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp ;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze ; 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide. 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide: 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste, 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast. 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band; 
Some,  as  she  sipped,  the  fuming  liquor  fanned. 
Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  displayed, 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
Cofi'ee   (which  makes  the  politician  wise. 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut  eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  baron's  brain 
New  stratagems  the  radiant  lock  to  gain. 
Ah,  cease,  rash  youth !  desist  ere  'tis  too  late. 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air. 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will, 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case: 
So  ladies  in  romance  assist  their  knight. 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  extends 
The  little  engine  on  his  fingers'  ends; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread. 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 


ALEXANDEK   POPE  39 

Swift  to  the  lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the  hair; 
And  thrice  they  twitched  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 
Thrice  she  looked  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew  near. 
Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought; 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined, 
He  watched  th'  ideas  rising  in  her  mind. 
Sudden  he  viewed,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  expired, 
Resigned  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 

The  peer  now  spreads  the  glittering  forfex  wide, 
T'  inclose  the  lock;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
E'en  then,  before  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed; 
Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in  twain 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again). 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  forever,  and  forever! 

Then  flashed  the  living  lightning  from  her  eyes. 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  atfrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  Heaven  are  cast. 
When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs  breathe  their  last; 
Or  when  rich  China  vessels,  fallen  from  high. 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie ! 

'Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  my  temples  twine,' 
The  victor  cried;   'the  glorious  prize  is  mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air. 
Or  in  a  coach  and  six  the  British  fair, 
As  long  as  Atalantis  shall  be  read, 
Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed, 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When   numerous   wax-lights   in   bright   order  blaze. 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give, 
So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise  shall  live! 
What  Time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives  its  date. 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate! 
Steel  could  the  labour  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And  strike  to  dust  th'  imperial  towers  of  Troy; 


40  ENGLISH   POETS 

Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  confound. 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 
What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph !  thy  hairs  should  feel, 
The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel?' 


From   TEANSLATION   OF   THE   ILIAD 
[the  parting  of  hector  and  Andromache] 

'How  would  the  sons  of  Troy,  in  arms  renowned, 
And   Troy's  proud  dames,   whose   garments   sweep   the 

ground, 
Attaint  the  lustre  of  my  former  name. 
Should  Hector  basely  quit  the  field  of  fame? 
My  early  youth  was  bred  to  martial  pains, 
My  soul  impels  me  to  th'  embattled  plains: 
Let  me  be  foremost  to  defend  the  throne. 
And  guard  my  father's  glories  and  my  own. 
Yet  come  it  will,  the  day  decreed  by  fates, 
(How  my  heart  trembles  while  my  tongue  relates !) 
The  day  when  thou,  imperial  Troy!  must  bend. 
And  see  thy  warriors  fall,  thy  glories  end. 
And  yet  no  dire  presage  so  wounds  my  mind. 
My  mother's  death,  the  ruin  of  my  kind. 
Not  Priam's  hoary  hairs  defil'd  with  gore. 
Not  all  my  brothers  gasping  on  the  shore. 
As  thine,  Andromache!     Thy  griefs  I  dread: 
I  see  thee  trembling,  weeping,  captive  led, 
In  Argive  looms  our  battles  to  design. 
And  woes  of  which  so  large  a  part  was  thine! 
To  bear  the  victor's  hard  commands,  or  bring 
The  weight  of  waters  from  Hyperia's  spring ! 
There,  while  you  groan  beneath  the  load  of  life, 
They  cry,  "Behold  the  mighty  Hector's  wife!" 
Some  haughty  Greek,  who  lives  thy  tears  to  see, 
Embitters  all  thy  woes  by  naming  me. 
The  thoughts  of  glory  past  and  present  shame, 
A  thousand  griefs,  shall  waken  at  the  name! 
May  I  lie  cold  before  that  dreadful  day. 
Pressed  with  a  load  of  monumental  clay! 


ALEXANDEE   POPE  41 

Thy  Hector,  wrapped  in  everlasting;  sleep, 
Shall  neither  hear  thee  siijh,  nor  see  thee  weep.' 

Thus  having  spoke,  th'  illustrious  chief  of  Trov 
Stretched  his  fond  arms  to  clasp  the  lovely  boy. 
The  babe  clung  crying  to  his  nurse's  breast, 
Scared  at  the  dazzling  helm  and  nodding  crest. 
With  secret  pleasure  each  fond  parent  smiled, 
And  Hector  hasted  to  relieve  his  child ; 
The  glittering  terrors  from  his  brows  unbound. 
And  placed  the  beaming  helmet  on  the  ground. 
Then  kissed  the  child,   and,  lifting  high  in  aii, 
Thus  to  the  gods  preferred  a  father's  prayer: 

'O  thou !  whose  glory  fills  th'  ethereal  throne, 
And  all  ye  deathless  powers !  protect  my  son ! 
Grant  him,  like  me,  to  purchase  just  renown, 
To  guard  the  Trojans,  to  defend  the  crown, 
Against  his  country's  foes  the  war  to  wage. 
And  rise  the  Hector  of  the  future  age! 
So  when,  triumphant  from  successful  toils. 
Of  heroes  slain  he  bears  the  reeking  spoils, 
Whole  hosts  may  hail  him  with  deserved  acclaim. 
And  say,  "This  chief  transcends  his  father's  fame": 
While  pleased,  amidst  the  general  shouts  of  Troy, 
His  mother's  conscious  heart  o'erflows  with  joy.' 

He  spoke,  and  fondly  gazing  on  her  charms. 
Restored  the  pleasing  burthen  to  her  arms; 
Soft  on  her  fragrant  breast  the  babe  she  laid. 
Hushed  to  repose,  and  with  a  smile  surveyed. 
The  troubled  pleasure  soon  chastised  by  fear, 
She  mingled  with  the  smile  a  tender  tear. 
The  softened  chief  with  kind  compassion  viewed, 
And  dried  the  falling  drops,  and  thus  pursued : 

'Andromache!  my  soul's  far  better  part, 
Why  with  untimely  sorrows  heaves  thy  heart? 
No  hostile  hand  can  antedate  my  doom. 
Till  fate  condemns  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
Fixed  is  the  term  to  all  the  race  of  earth. 
And  such  the  hard  condition  of  our  birth. 
No  force  can  then  resist,  no  flight  can  save: 
All  sink  alike,  the  fearful  and  the  brave. 
No  more — but  hasten  to  thy  tasks  at  home. 
There  guide  the  spindle,  and  direct  the  loom; 


42  ENGLISH   POETS 

Me  glory  summons  to  the  martial  scene, 
The  field  of  combat  is  the  sphere  for  men. 
Where  heroes  war,  the  foremost  place  I  claim, 
The  first  in  danger  as  the  first  in  fame.' 


From   AN   ESSAY    ON   MAN 

OP   THE    NATURE    AND   STATE    OF    MAN_,    WITH    RESPECT   TO   THB 
UNIVERSE 

Awake,  my  St.  John!  leave  all  meaner  things 

To  low  ambition,  and  the  pride  of  kings. 

Let  us  (since  life  can  little  more  supply 

Than  just  to  look  about  us,  and  to  die) 

Expatiate  free  o'er  all  this  scene  of  man; 

A  mighty  maze!  but  not  without  a  plan; 

A  wild,  where  weeds  and  flowers  promiscuous  shoot; 

Or  garden,  tempting  with  forbidden  fruit. 

Together  let  us  beat  this  ample  field. 

Try  what  the  open,  what  the  covert  yield; 

The  latent  tracts,  the  giddy  heights,  explore 

Of  all  who  blindly  creep,  or  sightless  soar; 

Eye  Nature's  walks,  shoot  folly  as  it  flies. 

And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise ; 

Laugh  where  we  must,  be  candid  where  we  can, 

But  vindicate  the  ways  of  God  to  man. 

I.     Say  first,  of  God  above,  or  man  below. 
What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we  know? 
Of  man,  what  see  we  but  his  station  here 
From  which  to  reason  or  to  which  refer? 
Through  worlds  unnumbered  though  the  God  be  known, 
'Tis  ours  to  trace  him  only  in  our  own. 
He,  who  through  vast  immensity  can  pierce. 
See  worlds  on  worlds  compose  one  universe, 
Observe  how  system  into  system  runs. 
What  other  planets  circle  other  suns, 
What  varied  being  peoples  every  star. 
May  tell  why  Heaven  has  made  us  as  we  are. 
But  of  this  frame  the  bearings,  and  the  ties 
The  strong  connections,  nice  dependencies, 


ALEXANDER   POPE  43 

Gradations  just,  has  thy  pervading  soul 

Looked  through  ?  or  can  a  part  contain  the  whole  ? 

Is  the  great  chain,  that  draws  all  to  agree, 
And  drawn  supports,  upheld  by  God,  or  thee? 

II.     Presumptuous  man !  the  reason  wouldst  thou  find. 
Why  formed  so  weak,  so  little,  and  so  blind  ? 
First,  if  thou  canst,  the  harder  reason  guess. 
Why  formed  no  weaker,  blinder,  and  no  less? 
Ask  of  thy  mother  earth,  why  oaks  are  made 
Taller  or  stronger  than  the  weeds  they  shade? 
Or  ask  of  yonder  argent  fields  above, 
Why  Jove's  satellites  are  less  than  Jove. 

Of  systems  possible,  if  'tis  confessed 
That  wisdom  infinite  must  form  the  best. 
Where  all  must  full  or  not  coherent  be. 
And  all  that  rises,  rise  in  due  degree; 
Then,  in  the  scale  of  reasoning  life,  'tis  plain, 
There  must  be,  somewhere,  such  a  rank  as  man : 
And  all  the  question  (wrangle  e'er  so  long) 
Is  only  this,  if  God  has  placed  him  wrong? 

Respecting  man,  whatever  wrong  we  call. 
May,  must  be  right,  as  relative  to  all. 
In  human  works,  though  laboured  on  with  pain, 
A  thousand  movements  scarce  one  purpose  gain; 
In  God's,  one  single  can  its  end  produce; 
Yet  serves  to  second  too  some  other  use. 
So  man,  who  here  seems  principal  alone, 
Perhaps  acts  second  to  some  sphere  unknown. 
Touches  some  wheel,  or  verges  to  some  goal; 
'Tis  but  a  part  we  see,  and  not  a  whole. 

When  the  proud  steed  shall  know  why  man  restrains 
His  fiery  course,  or  drives  him  o'er  the  plains ; 
When  the  dull  ox,  why  now  he  breaks  the  clod. 
Is  now  a  victim,   and  now  Egypt's  god : 
Then  shall  man's  pride  and  dulness  comprehend 
His  actions',  passions',  being's,  use  and  end ; 
Why  doing,  suffering,  checked,  impelled;  and  why 
This  hour  a  slave,  the  next  a  deity. 

Then  say  not  man's  imperfect,  Heaven  in  fault; 
Say  rather,  man's  as  perfect  as  he  ought : 
His  knowledge  measured  to  his   state  and  place, 
His  time  a  moment,  and  a  point  his  space. 


44  ENGLISH   POETS 

If  to  be  perfect  in  a  certain  sphere, 
What  matter,  soon  or  late,  or  here  or  there? 
The  blest  to-day  is  as  completely  so. 
As  who  began  a  thousand  years  ago. 

III.  Heaven  from  all  creatures  hides  the  book  of  fat-^^ 
All  but  the  page  prescribed,  their  present  state: 

From  brutes  what  men,  from  men  what  spirits  know: 

Or  who  could  suffer  being  here  below? 

The  lamb  thy  riot  dooms  to  bleed  to-day, 

Had  he  thy  reason,  would  he  skip  and  play  ? 

Pleased  to  the  last,  he  crops  the  flowery  food, 

And  licks  the  hand  just  raised  to  shed  his  blood. 

Oh,  blindness  to  the  future!  kindly  given. 

That  each  may  fill  the  circle  marked  by  Heaven: 

Who  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  God  of  all, 

A  hero  perish,  or  a  sparrow  fall. 

Atoms  or  systems  into  ruin  hurled. 

And  now  a  bubble  burst,  and  now  a  world. 

Hope  humbly  then ;  with  trembling  pinions  soar ; 
Wait  the  great  teacher  Death ;  and  God  adore. 
What  future  bliss,  he  gives  not  thee  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 
Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast: 
Man  never  is,  but  always  to  be  blessed. 
The  soul,  uneasy  and  confined  from  home, 
Rests  and  expatiates  in  a  life  to  come. 

Lo,  the  poor  Indian!  whose  untutored  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind; 
His  soul,  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way; 
Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given. 
Behind  the  cloud-topped  hill,  an  humbler  Heaven; 
Some  safer  world  in  depths  of  woods  embraced. 
Some  happier  island   in  the  watery  waste. 
Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire, 
He  asks  no  angel's  wing,  no  seraph's  fire; 
But  thinks,   admitted   to  that   equal   sky. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company. 

IV.  Go,  wiser  thou!  and,  in  thy  scale  of  sense 
Weigh  thy  opinion  against  Providence; 


ALEXANDER   POPE  4U 

Call  imperfection  what  thou  fanciest  such, 
Say,  'Here  he  gives  too  little,  there  too  much ;' 
Destroy  all  creatures  for  thy  sport  or  gust, 
Yet  cry,  'If  man's  unhappy,  God's  unjust;' 
If  man  alone  engross  not  Heaven's  high  care. 
Alone  made  perfect  here,  immortal  there. 
Snatch  from  his  hand  the  balance  and  the  rod, 
Rejudge  his  justice,  be  the  god  of  God. 
In  pride,  in  reasoning  pride,  our  error  lies; 
All  quit  their  sphere,  and  rush  into  the  skies. 
Pride  still  is  aiming  at  the  blest  abodes. 
Men  would  be  angels,  angels  would  be  gods. 
Aspiring  to  be  gods,  if  angels  fell. 
Aspiring  to  be  angels,  men  rebel: 
And  who  but  wishes  to  invert  the  laws 
Of  order,  sins  against  the  Eternal  Cause. 

V.     Ask  for  what  end  the  heavenly  bodies  shine, 
Earth  for  whose  use  ?    Pride  answers,  '  'Tis  for  mine : 
For  me  kind  nature  wakes  her  genial  power. 
Suckles  each  herb,  and  spreads  out  every  flower; 
Annual  for  me,  the  grape,  the  rose  renew 
The  juice  nectareous,  and  the  balmy  dew; 
For  me,  the  mine  a  thousand  treasures  brings ; 
For  me,  health  gushes  from  a  thousand  springs; 
Seas  roll  to  waft  me,  suns  to  light  me  rise; 
My  footstool  earth,  my  canopy  the  skies.' 

But  errs  not  Nature  from  this  gracious  end. 
From  burning  suns  when  livid  deaths  descend. 
When  earthquakes  swallow,  or  when  tempests  sweep 
Towns  to  one  grave,  whole  nations  to  the  deep? 
'No  ('tis  replied),  the  first  Almighty  Cause 
Acts  not  by  partial,  but  by  general  laws; 
Th'  exceptions  few ;  some  change,  since  all  began : 
And  what  created  perfect?'     Why  then  man? 
If  the  great  end  be  human  happiness, 
Then  nature  deviates;  and  can  man  do  less? 
As  much  that  end  a  constant  course  requires 
Of  showers  and  sunshine,  as  of  man's  desires ; 
As  much  eternal  springs  and   cloudless  skies. 
As  men  forever  temperate,  calm,  and  wise. 
If  plagues  or  earthquakes  break  not  Heaven's  design, 
Why  then  a  Borgia,  or  a  Catiline? 


46  ENGLISH   POETS 

Who  knows  but  He,  whose  hand  the  lightning  forms, 

Who  heaves  old  ocean,  and  who  wings  the  storms; 

Pours  fierce  ambition  in  a  Caesar's  mind. 

Or  turns  young  Ammon  loose  to  scourge  mankind? 

From  pride,  from  pride,  our  very  reasoning  springs. 

Account  for  moral,  as  for  natural  things: 

Why  charge  we  Heaven  in  those,  in  these  acquit? 

In  both,  to  reason  right  is  to  submit. 

Better  for  us,  perhaps,  it  might  appear. 
Were  there  all  harmony,  all  virtue  here; 
That  never  air  or  ocean  felt  the  wind; 
That  never  passion  discomposed  the  mind. 
But  all  subsists  by  elemental  strife; 
And  passions  are  the  elements  of  life. 
The  general  order,  since  the  whole  began, 
Is  kept  in  nature,  and  is  kept  in  man. 

VI.     What  would  this  man  ?    Now  upward  will  he  soar. 
And  little  less  than  angel,  would  be  more; 
Now  looking  downwards,  just  as  grieved  appears 
To  want  the  strength  of  bulls,  the  fur  of  bears. 
Made  for  his  use  all  creatures  if  he  call, 
Say  what  their  use,  had  he  the  powers  of  all? 
Nature  to  these,  without  profusion,  kind, 
The  proper  organs,  proper  powers  assigned; 
Each  seeming  want  compensated  of  course, 
Here  with  degrees  of  swiftness,  there  of  force; 
All  in  exact  proportion  to  the  state; 
Nothing  to  add,  and  nothing  to  abate. 
Each  beast,  each  insect,  happy  in  its  own: 
Is  Heaven  unkind  to  man,  and  man  alone? 
Shall  he  alone,  whom  rational  we  call, 
Be  pleased  with  nothing,  if  not  blessed  with  all? 

The  bliss  of  man  (could  pride  that  blessing  find) 
Is  not  to  act  or  think  beyond  mankind; 
No  powers  of  body  or  of  soul  to  share, 
But  what  his  nature  and  his  state  can  bear. 
Why  has  not  man  a  microscopic  eye? 
For  this  plain  reason,  man  is  not  a  fly. 
Say  what  the  use,  were  finer  optics  given, 
T'  inspect  a  mite,  not  comprehend  the  heaven  ? 
Or  touch,  if  tremblingly  alive  all  o'er. 
To  smart  and  agonize  at  every  pore? 


ALEXANDER  POPE  47 

Or  quick  effluvia  darting  through  the  brain, 

Die  of  a  rose  in  aromatic  pain? 

If  nature  thundered  in  his  opening  ears. 

And  stunned  him  with  the  music  of  the  spheres. 

How  would  he  wish  that  Heaven  had  left  him  still 

The  whispering  zephyr,  and  the  purling  rill? 

Who  finds  not  Providence  all  good  and  wise, 

Alike  in  what  it  gives  and  what  denies? 

VII.     Far  as  creation's  ample  range  extends, 
The  scale  of  sensual,  mental  power  ascends. 
Mark  how  it  mounts,  to  man's  imperial  race. 
From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass: 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme, 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam : 
Of  smell,  the  headlong  lioness  between 
And  hound  sagacious  on  the  tainted  green : 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood. 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood: 
The  spider's  touch,  how  exquisitely  fine ! 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line: 
In  the  nice  bee,  what  sense  so  subtly  true 
From  poisonous  herbs  extracts  the  healing  dew? 
How  instinct  varies  in  the  grovelling  swine. 
Compared,  half -reasoning  elephant,  with  thine! 
'Twixt  that  and  reason,  what  a  nice  barrier. 
Forever  separate,  yet  forever  near! 
Remembrance  and  reflection  how  allied; 
What  thin  partitions  sense  from  thought  divide: 
And  middle  natures,  how  they  long  to  join, 
Yet  never  pass  th'  insuperable  line! 
Without  this  just  gradation,   could  they  be 
Subjected,  these  to  those,  or  all  to  thee? 
The  powers  of  all  subdued  by  thee  alone. 
Is  not  thy  reason  all  these  powers  in  one? 

VIII.     See,  through  this  air,  this  ocean,  and  this  earth 
All  matter  quick,  and  bursting  into  birth. 
Above,  how  high,  progressive  life  may  go! 
Around,  how  wide!  how  deep  extend  below! 
Vast  chain  of  being!  which  from  God  began, 
Natures  ethereal,   human,   angel,   man. 
Beast,  bird,  fish,  insect,  what  no  eye  can  see. 
No  glass  can  reach;  from  infinite  to  thee. 


48  ENGLISH   POETS 

Trom  thee  to  nothing. — On  superior  powers 

Were  we  to  pass,  inferior  might  on  ours; 

Or  in  the  full  creation  leave  a  void, 

Where,  one  step  broken,  the  great  scale's  destroyed; 

From  nature's  chain  whatever  link  you  strike, 

Tenth,  or  ten  thousandth,  breaks  the  chain  alike. 

And,  if  each  system  in  gradation  roll 
Alike  essential  to  th'  amazing  whole. 
The  least  confusion  but  in  one,  not  all 
That  system  only,  but  the  whole  must  fall. 
Let  earth  unbalanced  from  her  orbit  fly, 
Planets  and  suns  run  lawless  through  the  sky; 
Let  ruling  angels  from  their  spheres  be  hurled, 
Being  on  being  wrecked,  and  world  on  world ; 
Heaven's  whole  foundations  to  their  centre  nod. 
And  nature  tremble  to  the  throne  of  God. 
All  this  dread  order  break — for  whom?  for  thee? 
Vile  worm ! — Oh,  madness  !  pride !  impiety ! 

IX.  What  if  the  foot,  ordained  the  dust  to  tread, 
Or  hand,  to  toil,  aspired  to  be  the  head  ? 

What  if  the  head,  the  eye,  or  ear  repined 
To  serve  mere  engines  to  the  ruling  mind? 
Just  as  absurd  for  any  part  to  claim 
To  be  another,  in  this  general  frame; 
Just  as  absurd,  to  mourn  the  tasks  or  pains. 
The  great  directing  Mind  of  all  ordains. 

All  are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole, 
Whose  body  nature  is,  and  God  the  soul; 
That,  changed  through  all,  and  yet  in  all  the  same; 
Great  in  the  earth,  as  in  th'  ethereal  frame; 
Warms  in  the  sun,  refreshes  in  the  breeze, 
Glows  in  the  stars,  and  blossoms  in  the  trees, 
Lives  through  all  life,  extends  through  all  extent, 
Spreads  undivided,  operates  unspent; 
Breathes  in  our  soul,  informs  our  mortal  part, 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  a  hair  as  heart; 
As  full,  as  perfect,  in  vile  man  that  mourns, 
As  the  rapt  seraph  that  adores  and  burns : 
To  him  no  high,  no  low,  no  great,  no  small; 
He  fills,  he  bounds,  connects,  and  eqiials  all. 

X.  Cease  then,  nor  order  imperfection  name: 
Our  proper  bliss  depends  on  what  we  blame. 


ALEXANDER   POPE  49 

Know  thy  own  point :  this  kind,  this  due  degree 

Of  blindness,  weakness,  Heaven  bestows  on  thee. 

Submit. — In  this,  or  any  other  sphere, 

Secure  to  be  as  blest  as  thou  canst  bear: 

Safe  in  the  hand  of  one  disposing  Power, 

Or  in  the  natal,  or  the  mortal  hour. 

All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee; 

All  chance,  direction,  which  thou  canst  not  see; 

All  discord,  harmony  not  understood; 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good: 

And,  spite  of  pride,  in  erring  reason's  spite, 

One  truth  is  clear,  Whatever  is,  is  right. 

[Man's  Powers  and  Frailties] 

Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan; 
The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  Man. 
Placed  on  this  isthmus  of  a  middle  state, 
A  being  darkly  wise,  and  rudely  great : 
With  too  much  knowledge  for  the  sceptic  side, 
With  too  much  weakness  for  the  stoic's  pride, 
He  hangs  between;  in  doubt  to  act  or  rest. 
In  doubt  to  deem  himself  a  god  or  beast; 
]n  doubt  his  mind  or  body  to  prefer. 
Born  but  to  die,  and  reasoning  but  to  err; 
Alike  in  ignorance,  his  reason  such 
Whether  he  thinks  too  little  or  too  much : 
Chaos  of  thought  and  passion,  all  confused; 
Still  by  himself  abused,  or  disabused; 
Created  half  to  rise,  and  half  to  fall; 
Great  lord  of  all  things,  yet  a  prey  to  all ; 
Sole  judge  of  truth,  in  endless  error  hurled: 
The  glory,  jest,  and  riddle  of  the  world ! 

[Virtue  and  Happiness] 

Oh  blind  to  truth,  and  God's  whole  scheme  below. 

Who  fancy  bliss  to  vice,  to  virtue  woe! 

Who  sees  and  follows  that  great  scheme  the  best, 

Best  knows  the  blessing,  and  will  most  be  blessed. 

But  fools,  the  good  alone  unhappy  call, 

Eor  ills  or  accidents  that  chance  to  all. 


50  ENGLISH   POETS 

See  Falkland  dies,  the  virtuous  and  the  just ! 

See  godlike  Turenne  prostrate  on  the  dust! 

See  Sidney  bleeds  amid  the  martial  strife! 

Was  this  their  virtue,  or  contempt  of  life? 

Say,  was  it  virtue,  more  though  Heaven  ne'er  gave. 

Lamented  Digby!  sunk  thee  to  the  grave? 

Tell  me,  if  virtue  made  the  son  expire, 

Why,  full  of  days  and  honour,  lives  the  sire? 

Why  drew  Marseilles'  good  bishop  purer  breath. 

When  nature  sickened,  and  each  gale  was  death? 

Or  why  so  long  (in  life  if  long  can  be) 

Lent  Heaven  a  parent  to  the  poor  and  me? 

What  makes  all  physical  or  moral  ill? 
There  deviates  nature,  and  here  wanders  will. 
God  sends  not  ill;  if  rightly  understood, 
Or  partial  ill  is  universal  good. 
Or  change  admits,  or  nature  lets  it  fall. 
Short,  and  but  rare,  till  man  improved  it  all. 
We  just  as  wisely  might  of  Heaven  complain 
That  righteous  Abel  was  destroyed  by  Cain, 
As  that  the  virtuous  son  is  ill  at  ease. 
When  his  lewd  father  gave  the  dire  disease. 
Think  we,  like  some  weak  prince,  th'  Eternal  Cause 
Prone  for  his  favourites  to  reverse  his  laws  ? 

Shall  burning  Etna,  if  a  sage  requires, 
Forget  to  thunder,  and  recall  her  fires? 
On  air  or  sea  new  motions  be  impressed. 
Oh  blameless  Bethel!  to  relieve  thy  breast? 
When  the  loose  mountain  trembles  from  on  high. 
Shall  gravitation  cease,  if  you  go  by  ? 
Or  some  old  temple,  nodding  to  its  fall, 
For  Chartres'  head  reserve  the  hanging  wall? 

But  still  this  world  (so  fitted  for  the  knave) 
Contents  us  not.     A  better  shall  we  have? 
A  kingdom  of  the  just  then  let  it  be: 
But  first  consider  how  those  just  agree. 
The  good  must  merit  God's  peculiar  care; 
But  who,  but  God,  can  tell  us  who  they  are? 
One  thinks  on  Calvin  Heaven's  own  spirit  fell; 
Another  deems  him  instrument  of  hell; 
If  Calvin  feel  Heaven's  blessing,  or  its  rod. 
This  cries,  there  is,  and  that,  there  is  no  God. 


ALEXANDER   POPE  61 

What  shocks  one  part  will  edify  the  rest, 

Nor  with  one  system  can  they  all  be  blessed. 

The  very  best  will  variously  incline, 

And  what  rewards  your  virtue,  punish  mine. 

Whatever  is,  is  right. — This  world  'tis  tru^ 

Was  made  for  C«sar — but  for  Titus  toe 

And  which  more  blessed  ?  who  chained  his  country,  say, 

Or  he  whose  virtue  sighed  to  lose  a  day? 

'But  sometimes  virtue  starves,  while  vice  is  fed,' 

What  then?    Is  the  reward  of  virtue  bread? 

That,  vice  may  merit,  'tis  the  price  of  toil; 

The  knave  deserves  it,  when  he  tills  the  soil. 

The  knave  deserves  it  when  he  tempts  the  main. 

Where  folly  fights  for  kings,  or  dives  for  gain. 

The  good  man  may  be  weak,  be  indolent: 

Nor  is  his  claim  to  plenty,  but  content. 

But  grant  him  riches,  your  demand  is  o'er; 

'No — shall  the  good  want  health,  the  good  want  power?' 

Add  health,  and  power,  and  every  earthly  thing. 

'Why  bounded  power?  why  private?  why  no  king?' 

Nay,  why  external  for  internal  given? 

Why  is  not  man  a  god,  and  earth  a  Heaven  ? 

Who  ask  and  reason  thus,  will  scarce  conceive 

God  gives  enough,  while  he  has  more  to  give: 

Immense  the  power,  immense  were  the  demand; 

Say,  at  what  part  of  nature  will  they  stand? 
What  nothing  earthly  gives,  or  can  destroy. 

The  soul's  calm  sunshine,  and  the  heart-felt  joy, 

Is  virtue's  prize:     A  better  would  you  fix? 

Then  give  humility  a  coach  and  six. 

Justice  a  conqueror's  sword,  or  truth  a  gown. 

Or  public  spirit  its  great  cure,  a  crown. 

Weak,  foolish  man !  will  Heaven  reward  us  there 

With  the  same  trash  mad  mortals  wish  for  here? 

The  boy  and  man  an  individual  makes. 

Yet  sigh'st  thou  now  for  apples  and  for  cakes? 

Go,  like  the  Indian,  in  another  life 

Expect  thy  dog,  thy  bottle,  and  thy  wife. 

As  well  as  dream  such  trifles  are  assigned. 

As  toys  and  empires,  for  a  god-like  mind. 

Rewards,  that  either  would  to  virtue  bring 

No  joy,  or  be  destructive  of  the  thing: 


52  ENGLISH   POETS 

How  oft  by  these  at  sixty  are  undone 

The  virtues  of  a  saint  at  twenty-one! 

To  whom  can  riches  give  repute,  or  trust, 

Content,  or  pleasure,  but  the  good  and  just? 

Judges  and  senates  have  been  bought  for  gold, 

Esteem  and  love  were  never  to  be  sold. 

Oh  fool !  to  think  God  hates  the  worthy  mind. 

The  lover  and  the  love  of  human-kind, 

Whose  life  is  healthful,  and  whose  conscience  clear. 

Because  he  wants  a  thousand  pounds  a  year. 

Honour  and  shame  from  no  condition  rise; 
Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honour  lies. 
Fortune  in  men  has  some  small  difference  made, 
One  flaunts  in  rags,  one  flutters  in  brocade; 
The  cobbler  aproned,  and  the  parson  gowned, 
The  friar  hooded,  and  the  monarch  crowned. 
'What  differ  more  (you  cry)  than  crown  and  cowl?' 
I'll  tell  you,  friend!  a  wise  man  and  a  fool. 
You'll  find,  if  once  the  monarch  acts  the  monk, 
Or,  cobbler-like,  the  parson  will  be  drunk. 
Worth  makes  the  man,  and  want  of  it  the  fellow. 
The  rest  is  all  but  leather  or  prunella. 


God  loves  from  whole  to  parts ;  but  human  soul 

Must  rise  from  individual  to  whole. 

Self-love  but  serves  the  virtuous  mind  to  wake, 

As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful  lake ; 

The  centre  moved,  a  circle  straight  succeeds. 

Another  still,  and  still  another  spreads; 

Friend,  parent,  neighbour,  first  it  will  embrace; 

His  country  next;  and  next  all  human  race; 

Wide  and  more  wide,  th'  o'erflowings  of  the  mind 

Take  every  creature  in,  of  every  kind; 

Earth  smiles  around,  with  boundless  bounty  blessed, 

And  Heaven  beholds  its  image  in  his  breast. 

Come  then,  my  friend!  my  Genius!  come  along; 
Oh  master  of  the  poet,  and  the  song! 
And  while  the  Muse  now  stoops,  or  now  ascends, 
To  man's  low  passions,  or  their  glorious  ends. 
Teach  me,  like  thee,  in  various  nature  wise, 
To  fall  with  dignity,  with  temper  rise; 


ALEXANDEE   POPE  53 

Formed  by  thy  converse,  happily  to  steer 
From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe; 
Correct  with  spirit,  eloquent  with  ease. 
Intent  to  reason,  or  polite  to  please. 
Oh !  while  along  the  stream  of  time  thy  name 
Expanded  flies,  and  gathers  all  its  fame. 
Say,  shall  my  little  bark  attendant  sail. 
Pursue  the  triumph,  and  partake  the  gale? 
When  statesmen,  heroes,  kings,  in  dust  repose. 
Whose  sons  shall  blush  their  fathers  were  thy  foes, 
Shall  then  this  verse  to  future  age  pretend 
Thou  wert  my  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend? 
That  urged  by  thee,  I  turned  the  tuneful  art 
From  sounds  to  things,  from  fancy  to  the  heart; 
For  wit's  false  mirror  held  up  Nature's  light; 
Shewed  erring  pride,  Whatever  is,  is  right; 
That  reason,  passion,  answer  one  great  aim; 
That  true  self-love  and  social  are  the  same; 
That  virtue  only,  makes  our  bliss  below; 
And  all  our  knowledge  is,  ourselves  to  I- now. 

From    MOEAL   ESSAYS 

OF   THE    CHARACTERS    OF   WOMEN 

Nothing  so  true  as  what  you  once  let  fall, 
'Most  women  have  no  characters  at  all.' 
Matter  too  soft  a  lasting  mark  to  bear. 
And  best  distinguished  by  black,  brown,  or  fair. 
How  many  pictures  of  one  nymph  we  view, 
All  how  unlike  each  other,  all  how  true ! 
Arcadia's  countess,  here  in  ermined  pride, 
Is  there  Pastora  by  a  fountain  side; 
Here  Fannia,  leering  on  her  own  good  man, 
And  there,  a  naked  Leda  with  a  swan. 
Let  then  the  fair  one  beautifully  cry. 
In  Magdalen's  loose  hair  and  lifted  eye. 
Or  dressed  in  smiles  of  sweet  Cecilia  shine, 
With  simpering  angels,  palms,  and  harps  divine; 
Whether  the  charmer  sinner  it,  or  saint  it. 
If  folly  grow  romantic,  I  must  paint  it. 


54  ENGLISH   POETS 

Flavia's  a  wit,  has  too  much  sense  to  pray ; 

To  toast  our  wants  and  wishes,  is  her  way; 

Nor  asks  of  God,  but  of  her  stars,  to  give 

The  mighty  blessing,  'while  we  live,  to  live.' 

Then  for  all  death,  that  opiate  of  the  soul! 

Lucretia's  dagger,  Rosamonda's  bowl. 

Say,  what  can  cause  such  impotence  of  mind  ? 

A  spark  too  fickle,  or  a  spouse  too  kind. 

Wise  wretch!  with  pleasures  too  refined  to  please; 

With  too  much  spirit  to  be  e'er  at  ease; 

With  too  much  quickness  ever  to  be  taught; 

With  too  much  thinking  to  have  common  thought: 

You  purchase  pain  with  all  that  joy  can  give. 

And  die  of  nothing  but  a  rage  to  live. 

Turn  then  from  wits;  and  look  on  Simo's  mate, 

No  ass  so  meek,  no  ass  so  obstinate; 

Or  her,  that  owns  her  faults,  but  never  mends. 

Because  she's  honest,  and  the  best  of  friends ; 

Or  her,  whose  life  the  Church  and  scandal  share. 

Forever  in  a  passion,  or  a  prayer; 
Or  her,  who  laughs  at  hell,  but  (like  her  Grace) 
Cries,  'Ah !  how  charming,  if  there's  no  such  place !' 
Or  who  in  sweet  vicissitude  appears 
Of  mirth  and  opium,  ratafie  and  tears. 
The  daily  anodyne,  and  nightly  draught, 
To  kill  those  foes  to  fair  ones,  time  and  thought. 
Woman  and  fool  are  two  hard  things  to  hit ; 
For  true  no-meaning  puzzles  more  than  wit. 
But  what  are  these  to  great  Atossa's  mind  ? 
Scarce  once  herself,  by  turns  all  womankind  1 
Who,  with  herself,  or  others,  from  her  birth 
Finds  all  her  life  one  warfare  upon  earth ; 
Shines,  in  exposing  knaves,  and  painting  fools, 
Yet  is,  whate'er  she  hates  and  ridicules. 
No  thought  advances,  but  her  eddy  brain 
Whisks  it  about,  and  down  it  goes  again. 
Full  sixty  years  the  world  has  been  her  trade, 
The  wisest  fool  much  time  has  ever  made. 
From  loveless  youth  to  unrespected  age, 
No  passion  gratified  except  her  rage. 
So  much  the  fury  still  outran  the  wit. 
The  pleasure  missed  her,  and  the  scandal  hit. 


ALEXANDER   POPE 

Who  breaks  with  her,  provokes  revenge  from  hell, 
But  he's  a  bolder  man  who  dares  be  well. 
Her  every  turn  with  violence  pursued, 
Nor  more  a  storm  her  hate  than  gratitude : 
To  that  each  passion  turns,  or  soon  or  late; 
Love,  if  it  makes  her  yield,  must  make  her  hate: 
Superiors  ?  death  !  and  equals  ?  what  a  curse ! 
But  an  inferior  not  dependent?  worse. 
Offend  her,  and  she  knows  not  to  forgive ; 
Oblige  her,  and  she'll  hate  you  while  you  live ; 
But  die,  and  she'll  adore  you — then  the  bust 
And  temple  rise— then  fall  again  to  dust. 
Last  night,  her  lord  was  all  that's  good  and  great; 
A  knave  this  morning,  and  his  will  a  cheat. 
Strange!  by  the  means  defeated  of  the  ends. 
By  spirit  robbed  of  power,  by. warmth  of  friends. 
By  wealth  of  followers!  without  one  distress. 
Sick  of  herself  through  very  selfishness ! 
Atossa,  cursed  with  every  granted  prayer. 
Childless  with  all  her  children,  wants  an  heir. 
To  heirs  unknown  descends  th'  unguarded  store. 
Or  wanders.  Heaven-directed,  to  the  poor. 

Pictures  like  these,  dear  Madam,  to  design, 
Asks  no  firm  hand,  and  no  unerring  line ; 
Some  wandering  touches,  some  reflected  light, 
Some  flying  stroke  alone  can  hit  them  right : 
For  how  should  equal  colours  do  the  knack? 
Chameleons  who  can  paint  in  white  and  black? 

'Yet  Chloe  sure  was  formed  without  a  spot' — 
Nature  in  her  then  erred  not,  but  forgot. 
'With  every  pleasing,  every  prudent  part, 
Say,  what  can  Chloe  want?' — She  wants  a  heart. 
She  speaks,  behaves,  and  acts  just  as  she  ought; 
But  never,  never,  reached  one  generous  thought. 
Virtue  she  finds  too  painful  an  endeavour, 
Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  forever. 
So  very  reasonable,  so  unmoved. 
As  never  yet  to  love,  or  to  be  loved. 
She,  while  her  lover  pants  upon  her  breast. 
Can  mark  the  figures  on  an  Indian  chest ; 
And  when  she  sees  her  friend  in  deep  despair. 
Observes  how  much  a  chintz  exceeds  mohair. 


56  ENGLISH   POETS 

Forbid  it  Heaven,  a  favour  or  a  debt 
She  e'er  should  cancel — but  she  may  forget. 
Safe  is  your  secret  still  in  Chloe's  ear; 
But  none  of  Chloe's  shall  you  ever  hear. 
Of  all  her  dears  she  never  slandered  one, 
But  cares  not  if  a  thousand  are  undone. 
Would  Chloe  know  if  you're  alive  or  dead? 
She  bids  her  footman  put  it  in  her  head. 
Chloe  is  prudent — would  you  too  be  wise  ? 
Then  never  break  your  heart  when  Chloe  dies. 

But  grant  in  public  men  sometimes  are  shown, 

A  woman's  seen  in  private  life  alone : 

Our  bolder  talents  in  full  light  displayed; 

Your  virtues  open  fairest  in  the  shade. 

Bred  to  disguise,  in  public  'tis  you  hide; 

There  none  distinguish  'twixt  your  shame  or  pride, 

Weakness  or  delicacy,  all  so  nice. 

That  each  may  seem  a  virtue  or  a  vice. 

In  men,  we  various  ruling  passions  find; 
In  women  two  almost  divide  the  kind; 
Those,  only  fixed,  they  first  or  last  obey. 
The  love  of  pleasure,  and  the  love  of  sway. 

Pleasures  the  sex,  as  children  birds,  pursue. 
Still  out  of  reach,  yet  never  out  of  view; 
Sure,  if  they  catch,  to  spoil  the  toy  at  most. 
To  covet  flying,  and  regret  when  lost : 
At  last,  to  follies  youth  could  scarce  defend, 
It  grows  their  age's  prudence  to  pretend; 
Ashamed  to  own  they  gave  delight  before, 
Reduced  to  feign  it,  when  they  give  no  more: 
As  hags  hold  Sabbaths,  less  for  joy  than  spite. 
So  these  their  merry,  miserable  night; 
Still  round  and  round  the  ghosts  of  beauty  glide. 
And  haunt  the  places  where  their  honour  died. 

See  how  the  world  its  veterans  rewards ! 
A  youth  of  frolics,  an  old  age  of  cards; 
Fair  to  no  purpose,  artful  to  no  end. 
Young  without  lovers,  old  without  a  friend; 
A  fop  their  passion,  but  their  prize  a  sot; 
Alive,  ridiculous,  and  dead,  forgot! 


ALEXANDER   POPE  57 

Ah !  Friend !  to  dazzle  let  the  vain  design ; 
To  raise  the  thought  and  touch  the  heart  be  thine! 
That  charm  shall  grow,  while  what  fatigues  the  Ring 
Flaunts  and  goes  down,  an  unregarded  thing: 
So  when  the  sun's  broad  beam  has  tired  the  sight. 
All  mild  ascends  the  moon's  more  sober  light, 
Serene  in  virgin  modesty  she  shines, 
And  unobserved  the  glaring  orb  declines. 

Oh!  blest  with  temper  whose  unclouded  ray- 
Can  make  to-morrow  cheerful  as  to-day; 
She,  who  can  love  a  sister's  charms,  or  hear 
Sighs  for  a  daughter  with  unwovmded  ear; 
She,  who  ne'er  answers  till  a  husband  cools. 
Or,  if  she  rules  him,  never  shows  she  rules; 
Charms  by  accepting,  by  submitting,  sways, 
Yet  has  her  humour  most,  when  she  obeys ; 
Let  fops  or  fortune  fly  which  way  they  will; 
Disdains  all  loss  of  tickets,  or  codille; 
Spleen,  vapours,  or  small-pox,  above  them  all, 
And  mistress  of  herself,  though  china  fall. 

And  yet,  believe  me,  good  as  well  as  ill, 
Woman's  at  best  a  contradiction  still. 
Heaven,  when  it  strives  to  polish  all  it  can 
Its  last  best  work,  but  forms  a  softer  man ; 
Picks  from  each  sex,  to  make  the  favourite  blest, 
Your  love  of  pleasure,  our  desire  of  rest : 
Blends,  in  exception  to  all  general  rules. 
Your  taste  of  follies,  with  our  scorn  of  fools : 
Reserve  with  frankness,  art  with  truth  allied. 
Courage  with  softness,  modesty  with  pride; 
Fixed  principles,  with  fancy  ever  new; 
Shakes  all  together,  and  produces — You. 


From   EPISTLE    TO   DR.   ARBUTHNOT 

P.  Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John!  fatigued,  I  said; 
Tie  up  the  knocker,  say  I'm  sick,  I'm  dead. 
The  Dog-star  rages !  nay,  'tis  past  a  doubt. 
All  Bedlam,  or  Parnassus,  is  let  out: 
Fire  in  each  eye,  and  papers  in  each  hand. 
They  rave,  recite,  and  madden  round  the  land. 


58  ENGLISH   POETS 

What  walls  can  guard  me,  or  what  shades  can  hide? 
They  pierce  my  thickets,  through  my  grot  they  glide; 
By  land,  by  water,  they  renew  the  charge; 
They  stop  the  chariot,  and  they  board  the  barge. 
No  place  is  sacred,  not  the  church  is  free; 
E'en  Sunday  shines  no  Sabbath  day  to  me: 
Then  from  the  Mint  walks  forth  the  man  of  rhyme, 
Happy  to  catch  me  just  at  dinner-time. 

Is  there  a  parson,  much  demused  in  beer, 
A  niaudlin  poetess,  a  rhyming  peer, 
A  clerk,  foredoomed  his  father's  soul  to  cross, 
Who  pens  a  stanza,  when  he  should  engross? 
Is  there,  who,  locked  from  ink  and  paper,  scrawls 
With  desperate  charcoal  round  his  darkened  walls? 
All  fly  to  Twit'nam,  and  in  humble  strain 
Apply  to  me,  to  keep  them  mad  or  vain. 
Arthur,  whose  giddy  son  neglects  the  laws, 
Imputes  to  me  and  my  damned  works  the  cause; 
Poor  Comus  sees  his  frantic  wife  elope. 
And  curses  wit,  and  poetry,  and  Pope. 

Friend  to  my  life!  (which  did  not  you  prolong, 
The  world  had  wanted  many  an  idle  song) 
What  drop  or  nostrum  can  this  plague  remove? 
Or  which  must  end  me,  a  fool's  wrath  or  love? 
A  dire  dilemma !  either  way  I'm  sped : 
If  foes,  they  write,  if  friends,  they  read  me  dead. 
Seized  and  tied  down  to  judge,  how  wretched  I! 
Who  can't  be  silent,  and  who  will  not  lie. 
To  laugh,  were  want  of  goodness  and  of  grace, 
And  to  be  grave,  exceeds  all  power  of  face. 
I  sit  with  sad  civility,  I  read 
With  honest  anguish,  and  an  aching  head; 
And  drop  at  last,  but  in  unwilling  ears. 
This  saving  counsel,  'Keep  your  piece  nine  years.* 

'Nine  years !'  cries  he,  who  high  in  Drury  Lane, 
Lulled  by  soft  zephyrs  through  the  broken  pane. 
Rhymes  ere  he  wakes,  and  prints  before  term  ends. 
Obliged  by  hunger,  and  request  of  friends : 
'The  piece,  you  think,  it  incorrect  ?  why,  take  it, 
I'm  all  submission,  what  you'd  have  it,  make  it.' 

Three  things  another's  modest  wishes  bound. 
My  friendship,  and  a  prologue,  and  ten  pound. 


ALEXANDER   POPE  59 

Pitholeon  sends  to  me:    'You  know  his  Grace, 
I  want  a  patron ;  ask  him  for  a  place.' 
'Pitholeon  libelled  me'  — 'But  here's  a  letter 
Informs  you,  sir,  'twas  when  he  knew  no  better. 
Dare  you  refuse  him?    Curll  invites  to  dine. 
He'll  write  a  journal,  or  he'll  turn  divine.' 

Bless  me !  a  packet. — '  'Tis  a  stranger  sues, 
A  virgin  tragedy,  an  orphan  Muse.' 
If  I  dislike  it,  'Furies,  death,  and  rage!' 
If  I  approve,  'Commend  it  to  the  stage.' 
There  (thank  my  stars)  my  whole  commission  ends. 
The  players  and  I  are,  luckily,  no  friends. 
Fired  that  the  house  reject  him,  '  'Sdeath  I'll  print  it. 

And  shame  the  fools Your  interest,  sir,  with  Lintot!' 

'Lintot,  dull  rogue !  will  think  your  price  too  much :' 

'Not,  sir,  if  you  revise  it,  and  retouch.' 

All  my  demurs  but  double  his  attacks; 

At  last  he  whispers,  'Do ;  and  we  go  snacks.' 

Glad  of  a  quarrel,  straight  I  clap  the  door; 

'Sir,  let  me  see  your  works  and  you  no  more.' 


There  are,  who  to  my  person  pay  their  court: 
I  cough  like  Horace,  and,  though  lean,  am  short, 
Ammon's  great  son  one  shoulder  had  too  high. 
Such  Ovid's  nose,  and  'Sir !  you  have  an  eye' — 
Go  on,  obliging  creatures,  make  me  se^; 
All  that  disgraced  my  betters,  met  in  me. 
Say  for  my  comfort,  languishing  in  bed, 
'Just  so  immortal  Maro  held  his  head:' 
And  when  I  die,  be  sure  you  let  me  know 
Great  Homer  died  three  thousand  years  ago. 

Why  did  I  write?  what  sin  to  me  unknown 
Dipped  me  in  ink,  my  parents',  or  my  own? 
As  yet  a  child,  nor  yet  a  fool  to  fame, 
I  lisped  in  numbers,  for  the  numbers  came. 
I  left  no  calling  for  this  idle  trade, 
No  duty  broke,  no  father  disobeyed. 
The  Muse  but  served  to  ease  some  friend,  not  wife. 
To  help  me  through  this  long  disease,  my  life, 
To  second,  Arbuthnot!  thy  art  and  care. 
And  teach  the  being  you  preserved,  to  bear. 


60  ENGLISH   POETS 

But  why  then  publish  ?    Granville  the  polite,  _ 

And  knowing  Walsh,  would  tell  me  I  could  write; 

Well-natured  Garth  inflamed  with  early  praise. 

And  Congreve  loved,  and  Swift  endured  my  lays; 

The  courtly  Talbot,  Somers,  Sheffield,  read; 

Even  mitred  Rochester  would  nod  the  head. 

And  St.  John's  self  (great  Dryden's  friends  before) 

With  open  arms  received  one  poet  more. 

Happy  my  studies,  when  by  these  approved! 

Happier  their  author,  when  by  these  beloved ! 

From  these  the  world  will  judge  of  men  and  books. 

Not  from  the  Burnets,  Oldmixons,  and  Cookes. 
Soft  were  my  numbers ;  who  could  take  offence 

While  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense? 

Like  gentle  Fanny's  was  my  flowery  theme, 

A  painted  mistress,  or  a  purling  stream. 

Yet  then  did  Gildon  draw  his  venal  quill; — 
I  wished  the  man  a  dinner,  and  sat  still. 
Yet  then  did  Dennis  rave  in  furious  fret; 
I  never  answered — I  was  not  in  debt. 
If  want  provoked,  or  madness  made  them  print, 
I  waged  no  war  with  Bedlam  or  the  Mint. 
Did  some  more  sober  critic  come  aboard ; 
If  wrong,  I  smiled ;  if  right,  I  kissed  the  rod. 
Pains,  reading,  study,  are  their  just  pretence, 
And  all  they  want  is  spirit,  taste,  and_  sense. 
Commas  and  points  they  set  exactly  right, 
And  'twere  a  sin  to  rob  them  of  their  mite; 
Yet  ne'er  one  sprig  of  laurel  graced  these  ribalds, 
From  slashing  Bentley  down  to  piddling  Tibbalds. 
Each  wight,  who  reads  not,  and  but  scans  and  spells, 
Each  word-catcher,  that  lives  on  syllables. 
Even  such  small  critics  some  regard  may  claim. 
Preserved  in  Milton's  or  in  Shakespeare's  name. 
Pretty!  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms 
Of  hairs,  or  straws,  or  dirt,  or  grubs,  or  worms ! 
The  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare. 
But  wonder  how  the  devil  they  got  there. 
Were  others  angry :  I  excused  them  too ; 
Well  might  they  rage,  I  gave  them  but  their  due. 
A  man's  true  merit  'tis  not  hard  to  find ; 
But  each  man's  secret  standard  in  his  mind, — 


ALEXANDER   POPE  61 

That  casting-weight  pride  adds  to  emptiness, — 

This,  who  can  gratify?  for  who  can  guess? 

The  bard  whom  pilfered  Pastorals  renown. 

Who  turns  a  Persian  tale  for  half  a  crown, 

Just  writes  to  make  his  barrenness  appear. 

And  strains,  from  hard-bound  brains,  eight  lines  a  year; 

He,  who  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft. 

Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left; 

And  he,  who  now  to  sense,  now  nonsense  leaning. 

Means  not,  but  blunders  round  about  a  meaning; 

And  he,  whose  f  ustian  s  so  sublimely  bad, 

It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad : 

All  these,  my  modest  satire  bade  translate, 

And  owned  that  nine  such  poets  made  a  Tate. 

How  did  they  fume,  and  stamp,  and  roar,  and  chafe! 

And  swear,  not  Addison  himself  was  safe. 

Peace  to  all  such !  but  were  there  one  whose  fires 
True  genius  kindles,  and  fair  fame  inspires; 
Blessed  with  each  talent  and  each  art  to  please. 
And  born  to  write,  converse,  and  live  with  ease: 
Should  such  a  man,  too  fond  to  rule  alone. 
Bear,  like  the  Turk,  no  brother  near  the  throne, 
View  him  with  scornful,  yet  with  jealous  eyes, 
And  hate  for  arts  that  caused  himself  to  rise; 
Damn  with  faint  praise,  assent  with  civil  leer, 
And  without  sneering,  teach  the  rest  to  sneer; 
Willing  to  wound,  and  yet  afraid  to  strike. 
Just  hint  a  fault,  and  hesitate  dislike; 
Alike  reserved  to  blame,  or  to  commend, 
A  timorous  foe,  and  a  suspicious  friend; 
Dreading  e'en  fools,  by  flatterers  besieged, 
And  so  obliging,  that  he  ne'er  obliged; 
Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws. 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause; 
While  wits  and  Templars  every  sentence  raise, 
And  wonder  with  a  foolish  face  of  praise — 
Who  but  must  laugh,  if  such  a  man  there  be? 
Who  would  not  weep,  if  Atticus  were  he! 


Oh,  let  me  live  my  own,  and  die  so  too ! 
(To  live  and  die  is  all  I  have  to  do:) 


62  ENGLISH   POETS 

Maintain  a  poet's  dignity  and  ease, 

And  see  what  friends,  and  read  what  books  I  please; 

Above  a  patron,  though  I  condescend 

Sometimes  to  call  a  minister  my  friend. 

I  was  not  born  for  courts  or  great  affairs ; 

I  pay  my  debts,  believe,  and  say  my  prayers ; 

Can  sleep  without  a  poem  in  my  head, 

Nor  know,  if  Dennis  be  alive  or  dead. 

Why  am  I  asked  what  next  shall  see  the  light  ? 
Heavens!  was  I  born  for  nothing  but  to  write? 
Has  life  no  joys  for  me?  or  (to  be  grave) 
Have  I  no  friend  to  serve,  no  soul  to  save  ? 
'I  found  him  close  with  Swift.' — 'Indeed?  no  doubt,' 
Cries  prating  Balbus,  'something  will  come  out.' 
'Tis  all  in  vain,  deny  it  as  I  will. 
'No,  such  a  genius  never  can  lie  still;' 
And  then  for  mine  obligingly  mistakes 
The  first  lampoon  Sir  Will  or  Bubo  makes. 
Poor  guiltless  I !  and  can  I  choose  but  smile. 
When  every  coxcomb  knows  me  by  my  style? 

Cursed  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow. 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe, 
Give  virtue  scandal,  innocence  a  fear, 
Or  from  the  soft-eyed  virgin  steal  a  tear! 
But  he  who  hurts  a  harmless  neighbour's  peace. 
Insults  fallen  worth,  or  beauty  in  distress; 
Who  loves  a  lie,  lame  slander  helps  about; 
Who  writes  a  libel,  or  who  copies  out ; 
That  fop,  whose  pride  affects  a  patron's  name, 
Yet  absent,  wounds  an  author's  honest  fame; 
Who  can  your  merit  selfishly  approve. 
And  show  the  sense  of  it  without  the  love; 
Who  has  the  vanity  to  call  you  friend, 
Yet  wants  the  honour,  injured,  to  defend; 
Who  tells  whate'er  you  think,  whate'er  you  say. 
And,  if  he  lie  not,  must  at  least  betray ; 
Who  to  the  Dean  and  silver  bell  can  swear. 
And  sees  at  Canons  what  was  never  there; 
Who  reads,  but  with  a  lust  to  misapply, 
Make  satire  a  lampoon,  and  fiction,  lie : 


ALEXANDER   POPE  63 

A  lash  like  mine  no  honest  man  shall  dread, 
But  all  such  babbling  blockheads  in  his  stead. 


Of  gentle  blood  (part  shed  in  honour's  cause, 

While  yet  in  Britain  honour  had  applause) 

Each  parent  sprung A.  What  fortune,  pray?— 

P.  Their  own, 
And  better  got,  than  Bestia's  from  the  throne. 
Born  to  no  pride,  inheriting  no  strife, 
Nor  marrying  discord  in  a  noble  wife, 
Stranger  to  civil  and  religious  rage, 
The  good  man  walked  innoxious  through  his  age. 
No  courts  he  saw,  no  suits  would  ever  try. 
Nor  dared  an  oath,  nor  hazarded  a  lie. 
Unlearn'd,  he  knew  no  schoolman's  subtle  art, 
No  language,  but  the  language  of  the  heart. 
By  nature  honest,  by  experience  wise. 
Healthy  by  temperance,  and  by  exercise; 
His  life,  though  long,  to  sickness  passed  unknown, 
His  death  was  instant,  and  without  a  groan. 
O  grant  me  thus  to  live,  and  thus  to  die ! 
Who  sprung  from  kings  shall  know  less  joy  than  I. 

O  friend!  may  each  domestic  bliss  be  thine! 
Be  no  impleasing  melancholy  mine: 
Me,  let  the  tender  office  long  engage. 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  reposing  age. 
With  lenient  arts  extend  a  mother's  breath. 
Make  languor  smile,  and  smooth  the  bed  of  death, 
Explore  the  thought,  explain  the  asking  eye. 
And  keep  awhile  one  parent  from  the  sky! 
On  cares  like  these  if  length  of  days  attend. 
May  Heaven,  to  bless  those  days,  pi^serve  my  friend, 
Preserve  him  social,  cheerful,  and  serene, 
And  just  as  rich  as  when  he  served  a  queen. 

A.  Whether  that  blessing  be  denied  or  given, 
Thus  far  was  right,  the  rest  belongs  to  Heaven. 


64  ENGLISH  POETS 


Erom  the  fiest  epistle  oe  the  second 
book  of  horace  imitated 

[To  George  II:     On  the  State  of  Literature] 

To  thee,  the  world  its  present  homage  pays 
The  harvest  early,  but  mature  the  praise: 
Great  friend  of  liberty!  in  kings  a  name 
Above  all  Greek,  above  all  Eoman  fame: 
Whose  word  is  truth,  as  sacred  and  revered, 
As  Heaven's  own  oracles  from  altars  heard. 
Wonder  of  kings !  like  whom,  to  mortal  eyes 
None  e'er  has  risen,  and  none  e'er  shall  rise. 

Just  in  one  instance,  be  it  yet  confessed, 
Your  people.  Sir,  are  partial  in  the  rest: 
Foes  to  all  living  worth  except  your  o\vn, 
And  advocates  for  folly  dead  and  gone. 
Authors,  like  coins,  grow  dear  as  they  grow  old; 
It  is  the  rust  we  value,  not  the  gold. 
Chaucer's  worst  ribaldry  is  learned  by  rote, 
And  beastly  Skelton  heads  of  houses  quote: 
One  likes  no  language  but  the  Faery  Queen; 
A  Scot  will  fight  for  Christ's  Kirk  o'  the  Green; 
And  each  true  Briton  is  to  Ben  so  civil. 
He  swears  the  muses  met  him  at  the  Devil. 

Though  justly  Greece  her  eldest  sons  admires, 
Why  should  not  we  be  wiser  than  our  sires? 
In  every  public  virtue  we  excel. 
We  build,  we  paint,  we  sing,  we  dance  as  well. 
And  learned  Athens  to  our  art  must  stoop. 
Could  she  behold  us  tumbling  through  a  hoop. 
If  time  improves  our  wit  as  well  as  wine, 
Say  at  what  age  a  poet  grows  divine? 
Shall  we,  or  shall  we  not,  account  him  so. 
Who  died,  perhaps,  a  hundred  years  ago? 
End  all  dispute ;  and  fix  the  year  precise 
When  British  bards  begin  t'  immortalize? 

Who  lasts  a  century  can  have  no  flaw, 
I  hold  that  wit  a  classic,  good  in  law.' 

Suppose  he  wants  a  year,  will  you  compound  ? 
And  shall  we  deem  him  ancient,  right  and  sound. 


ALEXANDER   POPE  65 

Or  damn  to  all  eternity  at  once, 

At  ninety-nine,  a  modern  and  a  dunce? 

*We  shall  not  quarrel  for  a  year  or  two; 
By  courtesy  of  England,  he  may  do.' 

Then,  by  the  rule  that  made  the  horse-tail  bare, 
I  pluck  out  year  by  year,  as  hair  by  hair, 
And  melt  down  ancients  like  a  heap  of  snow : 
While  you,  to  measure  merits,  look  in  Stowe, 
And  estimating  authors  by  the  year, 
Bestow  a  garland  only  on  a  bier. 

Shakespeare,  (whom  you  and  every  play-house  bill 
Style  the  divine,  the  matchless,  what  you  will,) 
For  gain,  not  glory,  winged  his  roving  flight, 
And  grew  immortal  in  his  own  despite. 
Ben,  old  and  poor,  as  little  seemed  to  heed 
The  life  to  come,  in  every  poet's  creed. 
Who  now  reads  Cowley  ?  if  he  pleases  jet, 
His  moral  pleases,  not  his  pointed  wit; 
Forgot  his  epic,  nay  Pindaric  art. 
But  still  I  love  the  language  of  his  heart. 

'Yet  surely,  surely,  these  were  famous  men! 
What  boy  but  hears  the  sayings  of  old  Ben  ? 
In  all  debates  where  critics  bear  a  part. 
Not  one  but  nods,  and  talks  of  Jonson's  art. 
Of  Shakespeare's  nature,  and  of  Cowley's  wit; 
How  Beaumont's  judgment  checked  what  Fletcher  writ; 
How  Shadwell  hasty,  Wycherley  was  slow; 
But,  for  the  passions,  Southern  sure  and  Kowe. 
These,  only  these,  support  the  crowded  stage, 
From  eldest  Heywood  down  to  Cibber's  age.' 

All  this  may  be;  the  people's  voice  is  odd, 
It  is,  and  it  is  not,  the  voice  of  God. 
To  Gammer  Gurton  if  it  give  the  bays. 
And  yet  deny  the  Careless  Husband  praise. 
Or  say  our  fathers  never  broke  a  rule; 
Why  then,  I  say,  the  public  is  a  fool. 
But  let  them  own,  that  greater  faults  than  we 
They  had,  and  greater  virtues,  I'll  agree. 
Spenser  himself  affects  the  obsolete. 
And  Sidney's  verse  halts  ill  on  Roman  feet: 
Milton's  strong  pinion  now  not  heaven  can  bound, 
Now  serpent-like,  in  prose  he  sweeps  the  ground, 


66  ENGLISH   POETS 

In  quibbles  angel  and  archangel  join, 
And  God  the  Father  turns  a  school-divine. 
Not  that  I'd  lop  the  beauties  from  his  book, 
Like  slashing  Bentley  with  his  desperate  hook, 
Or  damn  all  Shakespeare,  like  th'  affected  fool 
At  court,  who  hates  whate'er  he  read  at  school. 

But  for  the  wits  of  either  Charles's  days. 
The  mob  of  gentlemen  who  wrote  with  ease; 
Sprat,  Carew,  Sedley,  and  a  hundred  more, 
(Like  twinkling  stars  the  Miscellanies  o'er,) 
One  simile,  that  solitary  shines 
In  the  dry  desert  of  a  thousand  lines, 

Or  lengthened  thought  that  gleams  through  many  a  page. 
Has  sanctified  whole  poems  for  an  age. 
I  lose  my  patience,  and  I  owe  it  too. 
When  works  are  censured,  not  as  bad  but  new; 
While  if  our  elders  break  all  reason's  laws. 
These  fools  demand  not  pardon,  but  applause. 
On  Avon's  bank,  where  flowers  eternal  blow, 
If  I  but  ask,  if  any  weed  can  grow ; 
One  tragic  sentence  if  I  dare  deride 
Which  Betterton's  grave  action  dignified. 
Or  well-mouthed  Booth  with  emphasis  proclaims, 
(Though  but,  perhaps,  a  muster-roll  of  names,) 
How  will  our  fathers  rise  up  in  a  rage. 
And  swear  all  shame  is  lost  in  George's  age! 

You'd  think  no  fools  disgraced  the  former  reign. 

Did  not  some  grave  examples  yet  remain. 

Who  scorn  a  lad  should  teach  his  father  skill, 

And,  having  once  been  wrong,  will  be  so  still. 

He,  who  to  seem  more  deep  than  you  or  I, 

Extols  old  bards,  or  Merlin's  prophecy. 

Mistake  him  not;  he  envies,  not  admires, 

And  to  debase  the  sons,  exalts  the  sires. 

Had  ancient  times  conspired  to  disallow 

What  then  was  new,  what  had  been  ancient  now? 

Or  what  remained,  so  worthy  to  be  read 

By  learned  critics,  of  the  mighty  dead? 


Time  was,  a  sober  Englishman  would  knock 
His  servants  up,  and  rise  by  five  o'clock, 


I 


ALEXANDER   POPE  67 

Instruct  his  family  in  every  rule, 

And  send  his  wife  to  church,  his  son  to  school. 

To  worship  like  his  fathers,  was  his  care; 

To  teach  their  frugal  virtues  to  his  heir; 

To  prove  that  luxury  could  never  hold; 

And  place,  on  good  security,  his  gold. 

Now  times  are  changed,  and  one  poetic  itch 

Has  seized  the  court  and  city,  poor  and  rich : 

Sons,  sires,  and  grandsires,  all  will  wear  the  bays, 

Our  wives  read  Milton,  and  our  daughters  plays, 

To  theatres,  and  to  rehearsals  throng. 

And  all  our  grace  at  table  is  a  song. 

I,  who  so  oft  renounce  the  muses,  lie, 

Not 's  self  e'er  tells  more  fibs  than  I; 

When  sick  of  Muse,  our  follies  we  deplore, 
And  promise  our  best  friends  to  rhyme  no  more; 
We  wake  next  morning  in  a  raging  fit, 
And  call  for  pen  and  ink  to  show  our  wit. 

He  served  a  prenticeship,  who  sets  up  shop; 
Ward  tried  on  puppies,  and  the  poor,  his  drop ; 
Even  Radcliffe's  doctors  travel  first  to  France, 
Nor  dare  to  practise  till  they've  learned  to  dance. 
Who  builds  a  bridge  that  never  drove  a  pile? 
(Should  Eipley  venture,  all  the  world  would  smile;) 
But  those  who  cannot  write,  and  those  who  can, 
All  rhyme,  and  scrawl,  and  scribble,  to  a  man. 

Yet,  Sir,  reflect,  the  mischief  is  not  great; 
These  madmen  never  hurt  the  church  or  state : 
Sometimes  the  folly  benefits  mankind; 
And  rarely  avarice  taints  the  tuneful  mind. 
Allow  him  but  his  plaything  of  a  pen. 
He  ne'er  rebels,  or  plots,  like  other  men : 
Flight  of  cashiers,  or  mobs,  he'll  never  mind; 
And  knows  no  losses  while  the  Muse  is  kind. 
To  cheat  a  friend,  or  ward,  he  leaves  to  Peter, 
The  good  man  heaps  up  nothing  but  mere  metre, 
Enjoys  his  garden  and  his  book  in  quiet; 
And  then — a  perfect  hermit  in  his  diet. 

Of  little  use  the  man  you  may  suppose 
Who  says  in  verse  what  others  say  in  prose; 
Yet  let  me  show,  a  poet's  of  some  weight, 
And  (though  no  soldier)  useful  to  the  state. 


S8  ENGLISH   POETS 

What  will  a  child  learn  sooner  than  a  song? 

What  better  teach  a  foreigner  the  tongue? 

What's  long  or  short,  each  accent  where  to  place, 

And  speak  in  public  with  some  sort  of  grace? 

I  scarce  can  think  him  such  a  worthless  thing. 

Unless  he  praise  some  monster  of  a  king; 

Or  virtue,  or  religion  turn  to  sport, 

To  please  a  lewd,  or  unbelieving  Court. 

Unhappy  Dryden ! — In  all  Charles's  days, 

Roscommon  only  boasts  unspotted  bays; 

And  in  our  own  (excuse  some  courtly  stains) 

No  whiter  page  than  Addison  remains. 

He,  from  the  taste  obscene  reclaims  our  youth, 

And  sets  the  passions  on  the  side  of  truth, 

Eorms  the  soft  bosom  with  the  gentlest  art, 

And  pours  each  human  virtue  in  the  heart. 

Let  Ireland  tell,  how  wit  upheld  her  cause. 

Her  trade  supported,  and  supplied  her  laws; 

And  leave  on  Swift  this  grateful  verse  engraved, 

'The  rights  a  court  attacked,  a  poet  saved.' 

Behold  the  hand  that  wrought  a  nation's  cure, 

Stretched  to  relieve  the  idiot  and  the  poor, 

Proud  vice  to  brand,  or  injured  worth  adorn, 

And  stretch  the  ray  to  ages  yet  unborn. 

Not  but  there  are,  who  merit  other  palms; 

Hopkins  and  Sternhold  glad  the  heart  with  psalms: 

The  boys  and  girls  whom  charity  maintains. 

Implore  your  help  in  these  pathetic  strains: 

How  could  devotion  touch  the  country  pews. 

Unless  the  Gods  bestowed  a  proper  Muse? 

Verse  cheers  their  leisure,  verse  assists  their  work, 

Verse  prays  for  peace,  or  sings  down  Pope  and  Turk. 

The  silenced  preacher  yields  to  potent  strain. 

And  feels  that  grace  his  prayer  besought  in  vain; 

The  blessing  thrills  through  all  the  labouring  throng. 

And  Heaven  is  won  by  violence  of  song. 

Our  rural  ancestors,  with  little  blessed. 
Patient  of  labour  when  the  end  was  rest, 
Indulged  the  day  that  housed  their  annual  grain, 
With_  f easts,_  and  offerings,  and  a  thankful  strain : 
The  joy  their  wives,  their  sons,  and  servants  share, 
Ease  of  their  toil,  and  partners  of  their  care : 


ALEXANDER   POPE  69 

The  laugh,  the  jest,  attendants  on  the  bowl, 
Smoothed  every  brow,  and  opened  every  soul: 
With  growing  years  the  pleasing  licence  grew, 
And  taunts  alternate  innocently  flew. 
But  times  corrupt,  and  nature,  ill-inclined, 
Produced  the  point  that  left  a  sting  behind; 
Till  friend  with  friend,  and  families  at  strife. 
Triumphant  malice  raged  through  private  life. 
Who  felt  the  wrong,  or  feared  it,  took  th'  alarm, 
Appealed  to  law,  and  justice  lent  her  arm. 
At  length,  by  wholesome  dread  of  statutes  bound. 
The  poets  learned  to  please,  and  not  to  wound: 
Most  warped  to  flattery's  side;  but  some,  more  nice. 
Preserved  the  freedom,  and  forbore  the  vice. 
Hence  satire  rose,  that  just  the  medium  hit, 
And  heals  with  morals  what  it  hurts  with  wit. 

We  conquered  France,  but  felt  our  captive's  charms; 
Her  arts  victorious  triumphed  o'er  our  arms; 
Britain  to  soft  refinements  less  a  foe. 
Wit  grew  polite,  and  numbers  learned  to  flow. 
Waller  was  smooth;  but  Drj^den  taught  to  join 
The  varying  verse,  the  full-resounding  line, 
The  long  majestic  march,  and  energy  divine. 
Though  still  some  traces  of  our  rustic  vein. 
And  splay-foot  verse,   remained,  and  will  remain. 
Late,  very  late,  correctness  grew  our  care, 
When  the  tired  nation  breathed  from  civil  war. 
Exact  Racine,  and  Corneille's  noble  fire. 
Showed  us  that  France  had  something  to  admire. 
Not  but  the  tragic  spirit  was  our  own, 
And  full  in  Shakespeare,  fair  in  Otway  shone: 
But  Otway  failed  to  polish  or  refine, 
And  fluent  Shakespeare  scarce  effaced  a  line. 
Even  copious  Dryden  wanted,  or  forgot. 
The  last  and  greatest  art,  the  art  to  blot. 
Some  doubt,  if  equal  pains,  or  equal  fire 
The  humbler  muse  of  comedy  require. 
But  in  known  images  of  life,  I  guess 
The  labour  greater,  as  th'  indulgence  less. 
Observe  how  seldom  even  the  best  succeed: 
Tell  me  if  Congreve's  fools  are  fools  indeed? 


TO  ENGLISH   POETS 

What  pert,  low  dialogue  has  Farquhar  writ! 
How  Van  wants  grace,  who  never  wanted  wit! 
The  stage  how  loosely  does  Astrsea  tread, 
Who  fairly  puts  all  characters  to  bed ! 
And  idle  Cibber,  how  he  breaks  the  laws. 
To  make  poor  Pinky  eat  with  vast  applause! 
But  fill  their  purse,  our  poet's  work  is  done, 
Alike  to  them,  by  ijathos  or  by  pun. 


Yet  lest  you  think  I  rally  more  than  teach. 

Or  praise  malignly  arts  I  cannot  reach. 

Let  me  for  once  presume  t'  instruct  the  times 

To  know  the  poet  from  the  man  of  rhymes: 

'Tis  he  who  gives  my  breast  a  thousand  pains. 

Can  make  me  feel  each  passion  that  he  feigns; 

Enrage,  compose,  with  more  than  magic  art, 

With  pity,  and  with  terror,  tear  my  heart; 

And  snatch  me,  o'er  the  earth,  or  through  the  air. 

To  Thebes,  to  Athens,  when  he  will,  and  where. 


From   THE   EPILOGUE   TO    THE    SATIEES 
[The  Power  of  the  Satirist] 

Yes,  I  am  proud;  I  must  be  proud  to  see 
Men  not  afraid  of  God,  afraid  of  me: 
Safe  from  the  bar,  the  pulpit,  and  the  throne, 
Yet  touched  and  shamed  by  ridicule  alone. 

O  sacred  weapon !  left  for  truth's  defense, 
Sole  dread  of  folly,  vice,  and  insolence! 
To  all  but  Heaven-directed  hands  denied. 
The  Muse  may  give  thee,  but  the  gods  must  guide: 
Reverent  I  touch  thee!  but  with  honest  zeal, 
To  rouse  the  watchmen  of  the  public  weal; 
To  virtue's  work  provoke  the  tardy  hall, 
And  goad  the  prelate  slumbering  in  his  stall. 
Ye  tinsel  insects !  whom  a  court  maintains, 
That  counts  your  beauties  only  by  your  stains, 
Spin  all  your  cobwebs,  o'er  the  eye  of  day! 
The  Muse's  wing  shall  brush  you  all  away. 


ALEXANDER   POPE  71 

From  THE  DUNCIAD 
[The  College  of  Dulness] 

Close  to  those  walls  where  Folly  holds  her  throne, 

And  laughs  to  think  Monroe  would  take  her  down, 

Where  o'er  the  gates,  by  his  famed  father's  hand, 

Great  Cibber's  brazen  brainless  brothers  stand. 

One  cell  there  is,  concealed  from  vulgar  eye. 

The  cave  of  Poverty  and  Poetry. 

Keen,  hollow  winds  howl  through  the  bleak  recess, 

Emblem  of  music  caused  by  emptiness. 

Hence  bards,  like  Proteus  long  in  vain  tied  down, 

Escape  in  monsters,  and  amaze  the  town. 

Hence  Miscellanies  spring,  the  weekly  boast 

Of  Curll's  chaste  press  and  Lintot's  rubric  post; 

Hence  hymning  Tyburn's  elegiac  lines; 

Hence  Journals,  Medleys,  Mercuries,  Magazines, 

Sepulchral  lies,  our  holy  walls  to  grace, 

And  New-year  odes,  and  all  the  Grub  Street  race. 

In  clouded  majesty  here  Dulness  shone. 
Four  guardian  Virtues,  round,  support  her  throne: 
Fierce  champion  Fortitude,  that  knows  no  fears 
Of  hisses,  blows,  or  want,  or  loss  of  ears; 
Calm  Temperance,  whose  blessings  those  partake 
Who  hunger  and  who  thirst  for  scribbling  sake; 
Prudence,  whose  glass  presents  th'  approaching  jail; 
Poetic  Justice,  with  her  lifted  scale, 
Where,  in  nice  balance,  truth  with  gold  she  weighs, 
And  solid  pudding  against  empty  praise. 
Here  she  beholds  the  chaos  dark  and  deep. 
Where  nameless  somethings  in  their  causes  sleep, 
Till  genial  Jacob  or  a  warm  third  day 
Call  forth  each  mass,  a  poem  or  a  play: 
How  hints,  like  spawn,  scarce  quick  in  embryo  lie; 
How  new-bom  nonsense  first  is  taught  to  cry; 
Maggots,  half  formed,  in  rhyme  exactly  meet. 
And  learn  to  crawl  upon  poetic  feet. 
Here  one  poor  word  an  hundred  clenches  makes. 
And  ductile  Dulness  new  meanders  takes; 
There  motley  images  her  fancy  strike. 
Figures  ill  paired,  and  similes  unlike. 


72  ENGLISH   POETS 

She  sees  a  mob  of  metaphors  advance, 
Pleased  with  the  madness  of  the  mazy  dance; 
How  Tragedy  and  Comedy  embrace; 
How  Farce  and  Epic  get  a  jumbled  race; 
How  Time  himself  stands  still  at  her  command. 
Realms  shift  their  place,  and  ocean  turns  to  land. 
Here  gay  description  Egypt  glads  with  showers. 
Or  gives  to  Zembla  fruits,  to  Barca  flowers; 
Glittering  with  ice  here  hoary  hills  are  seen, 
There  painted  valleys  of  eternal  green; 
In  cold  December  fragrant  chaplets  blow. 
And  heavy  han-ests  nod  beneath  the  snow. 

All  these  and  more  the  cloud-compelling  queen 
Beholds  through  fogs,  that  magnify  the  scene: 
She,  tinselled  o'er  in  robes  of  varying  hues, 
With  self-applause  her  wild  creation  views; 
Sees  momentary  monsters  rise  and  fall, 
And  with  her  own  fools-colours  gilds  them  all. 


[Gibber  as  Dulness's  Favourite  Son] 

In  each  she  marks  her  image  full  expressed. 
But  chief  in  Bays's  monster-breeding  breast; 
Bays,  formed  by  nature  stage  and  town  to  bless. 
And  act,  and  be,  a  coxcomb  with  success. 
Dulness  with  transport  eyes  the  lively  dunce, 
Rememb'ring  she  herself  was  Pertness  once. 
Now  (shame  to  Fortune!)  an  ill  run  at  play 
Blanked  his  bold  visage,  and  a  thin  third  day: 
Swearing  and  supperless  the  hero  sate. 
Blasphemed  his  gods,  the  dice,  and  damned  his  fate; 
Then  gnawed  his  pen,  then  dashed  it  on  the  ground. 
Sinking  from  thought  to  thought,  a  vast  profound! 
Plunged  for  his  sense,  but  found  no  bottom  there; 
Yet  wrote  and  floundered  on  in  mere  despair. 
Round  him  much  embryo,  much  abortion  lay. 
Much  future  ode,  and  abdicated  play; 
Nonsense  precipitate,  like  running  lead, 
That  slipped  through  cracks  and  zigzags  of  the  head; 
All  that  on  Folly  Frenzy  could  beget, 
Fruits  of  dull  heat,  and  sooterkins  of  wit. 


ALEXANDER   POri<:  73 

Next  o'er  his  books  his  eyes  began  to  roll, 

In  pleasing  memory  of  all  he  stole — 

How  here  he  sipped,  how  there  he  plundered  snug, 

And  sucked  all  o'er  like  an  industrious  bug. 

Here  lay  poor  Fletcher's  half-eat  scenes,  and  here 

The  frippery  of  crucified  Moliere; 

There  hapless  Shakespeare,  yet  of  Tibbald  sore. 

Wished  he  had  blotted  for  himself  before. 


[The  Restoration  of  Night  and  Chaos] 

In  vain,  in  vain — the  all-composing  hour 

Resistless  falls:  the  Muse  obeys  the  power. 

She  comes!  she  comes!  the  sable  throne  behold 

Of  Night  primeval  and  of  Chaos  old! 

Before  her,  Fancy's  gilded  clouds  decay, 

And  all  its  varying  rainbows  die  away. 

Wit  shoots  in  vain  its  momentary  fires. 

The  meteor  drops,  and  in  a  flash  expires. 

As  one  by  one,  at  dread  Medea's  strain. 

The  sickening  stars  fade  ofl"  th'  ethereal  plain; 

As  Argus'  eyes,  by  Hermes'  wand  oppressed. 

Closed  one  by  one  to  everlasting  rest: 

Thus  at  her  felt  approach,  and  secret  might, 

Art  after  art  goes  out,  and  all  is  night. 

See  skulking  Truth  to  her  old  cavern  fled, 

Mountains  of  casuistry  heaped  o'er  her  head ! 

Philosophy,  that  leaned  on  Heaven  before. 

Shrinks  to  her  second  cause,  and  is  no  more. 

Physic  of  Metaphysic  begs  defence. 

And  Metaphysic  calls  for  aid  on  Sense! 

See  Mystery  to  Mathematics  fly! 

In  vain !  they  gaze,  turn  giddy,  rave,  and  die. 

Religion  blushing  veils  her  sacred  fires. 

And  unawares  Morality  expires. 

Nor  public  flame,  nor  private,  dares  to  shine; 

Nor  human  spark  is  left,  nor  glimpse  divine! 

Lo!  thy  dread  empire,  Chaos!  is  restored; 

Light  dies  before  thy  uncreating  word: 

Thy  hand,  great  Anarch!  lets  the  curtain  fall; 

And  universal  darkness  buries  all. 


74  ENGLISH   POETS 

LADY   WINCHILSEA 

TO   THE   NIGHTINGALE 

Exert  thy  voice,  sweet  harbinger  of  Spring! 

This  moment  is  thy  time  to  sing. 

This  moment  I  attend  to  praise. 
And  set  my  numbers  to  thy  lays. 

Free  as  thine  shall  be  my  song; 

As  thy  music,  short,  or  long. 
Poets,  wild  as  thee,  were  born, 

Pleasing  best  when  unconfined. 

When  to  please  is  least  designed, 
Soothing  but  their  cares  to  rest; 

Cares  do  still  their  thoughts  molest, 

And  still  th'  unhappy  poet's  breast. 
Like  thine,  when  best  he  sings,  is  placed  against  a  thorn. 
She  begins,  let  all  be  still ! 

Muse,  thy  promise  now  fulfil! 
Sweet,  oh!  sweet,  still  sweeter  yet! 
Can  thy  words  such  accents  fit? 
Canst  thou  syllables  refine, 
Melt  a  sense  that  shall  retain 
Still  some  spirit  of  the  brain, 
Till  with  sounds  like  these  it  join? 

'Twill  not  be!  then  change  thy  note; 

Let  division  shake  thy  throat. 
Hark!  division  now  she  tries; 
Yet  as  far  the  muse  outflies. 

Cease  then,  prithee,  cease  thy  tune; 

Trifler,  wilt  thou  sing  till  June? 
Till  thy  business  all  lies  waste. 
And  the  time  of  building's  past ! 

Thus  we  poets  that  have  speech. 
Unlike  what  thy  forests  teach, 

If  a  fluent  vein  be  shown 

That's  transcendent  to  our  own. 
Criticise,  reform,  or  preach, 
Or  censure  what  we  cannot  reach. 


LADY  WINCIIILSEA  75 

A  NOCTURNAL  REVERIE 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind 
Is  to  its  distant  cavern  safe  confined, 
And  only  gentle  Zephyr  fans  his  wings. 
And  lonely  Philomel,  still  waking,  sings; 
Or  from  some  tree,  famed  for  the  owl's  delight, 
She  hollowing  clear,  directs  the  wanderer  right; 
In  such  a  night,  when  passing  clouds  give  place. 
Or  thinly  veil  the  heaven's  mysterious  face; 
When  in  some  river,  overliung  with  green. 
The  waving  moon  and  trembling  leaves  are  seen; 
When  freshened  gross  now  bears  itself  upright. 
And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  invite, 
Whence  springs  the  woodbine  and  the  bramble-rose. 
And  where  the  sleepy  cowslip  sheltered  grows; 
Whilst  now  a  paler  hue  the  foxglove  takes. 
Yet  chequers  still  with  red  the  dusky  brakes; 
When  scattered  glow-worms,  but  in  twilight  fine, 
Show  trivial  beauties  watch  their  hour  to  shine, 
Whilst  Salisbury  stands  the  test  of  every  light 
In  perfect  charms  and  perfect  virtue  bright; 
When  odours  which  declined  repelling  day 
Through  temperate  air  uninterrupted  stray: 
When  darkened  groves  their  softest  shadows  wear, 
And  falling  waters  we  distinctly  hear; 
When  through  the  gloom  more  venerable  shows 
Some  ancient  fabric,  awful  in  repose, 
While  sunburnt  hills  their  swarthy  looks  conceal 
And  swelling  haycocks  thicken  up  the  vale; 
When  the  loosed  horse  now,  as  his  pasture  leads. 
Comes  slowly  grazing  through  th'  adjoining  meads. 
Whose  stealing  pace,  and  lengthened  shade  we  fear, 
Till  torn  up  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear; 
When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their  food, 
And  unmolested  kine  re-chew  the  cud; 
When  curlews  cry  beneath  the  village-walls. 
And  to  her  straggling  brood  the  partridge  calls; 
Their  shortlived  jubilee  the  creatures  keep. 
Which  but  endures  whilst  tyrant-man  does  sleep; 
When  a  sedate  content  the  spirit  feels. 
And  no  fierce  light  disturb,  whilst  it  reveals; 


Y6  ENGLISH   POETS 

But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek 

Something  too  high  for  syllables  to  speak; 

Till  the  free  soul  to  a  composedness  charmed, 

Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarmed, 

O'er  all  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 

Joys  in  th'  inferior  world  and  thinks  it  like  her  own ; 

In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain 

Till  morning  breaks  and  all's  confused  again; 

Our  cares,  our  toils,  our  clamours  are  renewed. 

Or  pleasures,  seldom  reached,  again  pursued. 


JOHN    GAY 

From  RUEAL  SPORTS 

When  the  ploughman  leaves  the  task  of  day. 
And,  trudging  homeward,  whistles  on  the  way; 
When  the  big-uddered  cows  with  patience  stand, 
Waiting  the  strokings  of  the  damsel's  hand; 
No  warbling  cheers  the  woods ;  the  feathered  choir. 
To  court  kind  slumbers,  to  their  sprays  retire; 
When  no  rude  gale  disturbs  the  sleeping  trees, 
Nor  aspen  leaves  confess  tlie  gentlest  breeze; 
Engaged  in  thought,  to  Neptune's  bounds  I  stray. 
To  take  my  farewell  of  the  parting  day: 
Far  in  the  deep  the  sun  his  glory  hides, 
A  streak  of  gold  the  sea  and  sky  divides ; 
The  purple  clouds  their  amber  linings  show. 
And  edged  with  flame  rolls  every  wave  below; 
Here  pensive  I  behold  the  fading  light, 
And  o'er  the  distant  billows  lose  my  sight. 

From   THE   SHEPHERD'S   WEEK 

THURSDAY;    OR,    THE    SPELL 

I  rue  the  day,  a  rueful  day  I  trow. 
The  woeful  day,  a  day  indeed  of  woe! 
When  Lubberkin  to  town  his  cattle  drove: 
A  maiden  fine  bedight  he  happed  to  love; 


JOHN   GAY  77 

The  maiden  fine  bedight  his  love  retains, 

And  for  the  village  he  forsakes  the  plains. 

Eeturn,  my  Lubberkin !  these  ditties  hear! 

Spells  will  I  try,  and  spells  shall  ease  my  care. 

With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the  ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around. 


Last  May  Day  fair  I  searched  to  find  a  snail 
That  might  my  secret  lover's  name  reveal. 
Upon  a  gooseberry-bush  a  snail  I  found, 
For  always  snails  near  sweetest  fruit  abound. 
I  seized  the  vermin,  home  I  quickly  sped. 
And  on  the  hearth  the  milk-white  embers  spread: 
Slow  crawled  the  snail,  and,  if  I  right  can  spell, 
In  the  soft  ashes  marked  a  curious  L. 
Oh,  may  this  wondrous  omen  lucky  prove ! 
For  L  is  found  in  'Lubberkin'  and  'Love.' 

With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the  ground, 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around. 


This  lady-fly  I  take  from  off  the  grass. 
Whose  spotted  back  might  scarlet  red  surpass: 
'Fly,  lady-bird,  north,  south,  or  east,  or  west! 
Fly  where  the  man  is  found  that  I  love  best!' 
He  leaves  my  hand :  see,  to  the  west  he's  flown, 
To  call  my  true-love  from  the  faithless  town. 

With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the  ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around. 

This  mellow  pippin,  which  I  pare  around, 

My  shepherd's  name  shall  flourish  on  the  ground : 

I  fling  th'  unbroken  paring  o'er  my  head — 

Upon  the  grass  a  perfect  L  is  read. 

Yet  on  my  heart  a  fairer  L  is  seen 

Than  what  the  paring  marks  upon  the  green. 

With  m,y  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the  ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around. 

This  pippin  shall  another  trial  make. 

See,  from  the  core  two  kernels  brown  I  take: 


78  EN"GLISH    POETS 

This  on  my  cheek  for  Lubberkin  is  worn, 
And  Boobyclod  on  t'  other  side  is  borne; 
But  Boobyclod  soon  drops  upon  the  ground 
(A  certain  token  that  his  love's  unsound), 
While  Lubberkin  sticks  firmly  to  the  last — 
Oh,  were  his  lips  to  mine  but  joined  so  fast! 

With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the  ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around. 

As  Lubberkin  once  slept  beneath  a  tree, 
I  twitched  his  dangling-  garter  from  his  knee; 
He  wist  not  when  the  hempen  string  I  drew. 
'^ow  mine  I  quickly  doff  of  inkle  blue; 
Together  fast  I  tie  the  garters  twain, 
And  while  I  knit  the  knot  repeat  this  strain: 
'Three  times  a  true-love's  knot  I  tie  secure; 
Firm  be  the  knot,  firm  may  his  love  endure!' 

With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the  ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around. 

As  I  was  wont  I  trudged  last  market-day 
To  town,  with  new-laid  eggs  preserved  in  hay. 
I  made  my  market  long  before  't  was  night; 
My  purse  grew  heavy  and  my  basket  light: 
Straight  to  the  'pothecary's  shop  I  went. 
And  in  love-powder  all  my  money  spent. 
Behap  what  will,  next  Sunday  after  prayers. 
When  to  the  alehouse  Lubberkin  repairs, 
These  golden  flies  into  his  mug  I'll  throw, 
And  soon  the  swain  with  fervent  love  shall  glow. 
With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the  ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around. 

But  hold!  our  Lightfoot  barks,  and  cocks  his  ears: 
O'er  yonder  stile,  see,  Lubberkin  appears ! 
He  comes,  he  comes!     Hobnelia's  not  bewrayed, 
Nor  shall  she,  crowned  with  willow,  die  a  maid. 
He  vows,  he  swears,  he'll  give  me  a  green  gown : 
Oh,  dear!  I  fall  adown,  adown,  adown! 


JOHN   GAY  79 

From  TEIVIA 

If  clothed  in  black  you  tread  the  busy  town, 

<  >r  if  distinguished  by  the  reverend  gown, 

'I'hree  trades  avoid:  oft  in  the  mingling  press 

I'he  barber's  apron  soils  the  sable  dress; 

Shun  the  perfumer's  touch  with  cautious  eye. 

Nor  let  the  baker's  step  advance  too  nigh. 

Ye  walkers  too  that  youthful  colours  wear, 

Three  sullying  trades  avoid  with  equal  care: 

The  little  chimney-sweeper  skulks  along, 

And  marks  with  sooty  stains  the  heedless  throng; 

When  'Small-coal !'  murmurs  in  the  hoarser  throat. 

From  smutty  dangers  guard  thy  threatened  coat; 

The  dust-man's  cart  offends  thy  clothes  and  eyes, 

When  through  the  street  a  cloud  of  ashes  flies. 

But  whether  black  or  lighter  dyes  are  worn, 

The  chandler's  basket,  on  his  shoulder  borne. 

With  tallow  spots  thy  coat;  resign  the  way 

To  shun  the  surly  butcher's  greasy  tray — 

Butchers  whose  hands  are  dyed  with  blood's  foul  stain. 

And  always  foremost  in  the  hangman's  train. 

Let  due  civilities  be  strictly  paid : 
The  wall  surrender  to  the  hooded  maid. 
Nor  let  thy  sturdy  elbow's  hasty  rage 
Jostle  the  feeble  steps  of  trembling  age; 
And  when  the  porter  bends  beneath  his  load. 
And  pants  for  breath,  clear  thou  the  crowded  road ; 
But,  above  all,  the  groping  blind  direct. 
And  from  the  pressing  throng  the  lame  protect. 
You'll  sometimes  meet  a  fop,  of  nicest  tread. 
Whose  mantling  peruke  veils  his  empty  head; 
At  every  step  he  dreads  the  wall  to  lose 
And  risks,  to  save  a  coach,  his  red-heeled  shoes: 
Him,  like  the  miller,  pass  with  caution  by, 
Lest  from  his  shoulder  clouds  of  powder  fly. 
But  when  the  bully,  with  assuming  pace. 
Cocks  his  broad  hat,  edged  round  with  tarnished  lace. 
Yield  not  the  way;  defy  his  strutting  pride, 
And  thrust  him  to  the  muddy  kennel's  side; 
He  never  turns  again  nor  dares  oppose. 
But  mutters  coward  curses  as  he  goes. 


80  ENGLISH   POETS 

SWEET  WILLIAM'S  FAEEWELL  TO  BLACK- 
EYED  SUSAN 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard: 
'Oh,  where  shall  I  my  true  love  find? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew?' 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 
Rocked  with  the  billow  to  and  fro. 

Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard. 
He  sighed  and  cast  his  eyes  below: 

The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands. 

And,  quick  as  lightning,  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air. 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast. 

If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 

The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 

Mighty  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

'O,  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain! 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear: 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds !  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

'Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say. 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind: 

They'll  tell  thee  sailors,  when  away. 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find — 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so. 

For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

'If  to  far  India's  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright; 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 


SAMUEL    CROXALL  81 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 
Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charmi  of  lovely  Sue. 

'Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 

William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly. 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye.' 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word ; 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread ; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard : 

They  kissed — she  sighed — he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land; 
'Adieu !'  she  cries,  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

MY    OWN   EPITAPH 

Life  is  a  jest,   and  all  things  show  it: 
I  thought  so  once,  but  now  I  know  it. 


SAMUEL    CROXALL 

Erom  the  vision 

Pensive  beneath  a  spreading  oak  I  stood 
That  veiled  the  hollow  channel  of  the  flood : 
Along  whose  shelving  bank  the  violet  blue 
And  primrose  pale  in  lovely  mixture  grew. 
High  overarched  the  bloomy  woodbine  hung, 
The  gaudy  goldfinch  from  the  maple  sung; 
The  little  warbling  minstrel  of  the  shade 
To  the  gay  morn  her  due  devotion  paid 
Next,  the  soft  linnet  echoing  to  the  thrush 
With  carols  filled  the  smelling  briar-bush ; 
While  Philomel  attuned  her  artless  throat, 
And  from  the  hawthorn  breathed  a  trilling  note. 


82  ENGLISH   POETS 

Indulgent  Nature  smiled  in  every  part, 
And  filled  with  joy  unknown  my  ravisheCT  heart ; 
Attent  I  listened  while  the  feathered  throng 
Alternate  finished  and  renewed  their  song. 


THOMAS    TICKELL 
From  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MR.  ADDISON 

Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave 

My  soul's  best  part  forever  to  the  grave? 

How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread, 

By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions  of  the  dead. 

Through  breathing  statues,  then  unheeded  things, 

Through  rows  of  warriors,  and  through  walks  of  kings! 

What  awe  did  the  slow  solemn  knell  inspire; 

The  pealing  organ,  and  the  pausing  choir; 

The  duties  by  the  lawn-robed  prelate  paid; 

And  the  last  words,  that  dust  to  dust  conveyed! 

While  speechless  o'er  thy  closing  grave  we  bend, 

Accept  these  tears,  thou  dear  departed  friend. 

Oh,  gone  forever!  take  this  long  adieu; 

And  sleep  in  peace  next  thy  loved  Montague! 

To  strew  fresh  laurels,  let  the  task  be  mine, 
A  frequent  pilgrim  at  thy  sacred  shrine; 
Mine  with  true  sighs  thy  absence  to  bemoan, 
And  grave  with  faithful  epitaphs  thy  stone. 
If  e'er  from  me  thy  loved  memorial  part, 
May  shame  afflict  this  alienated  heart; 
Of  thee  forgetful  if  I  form  a  song, 
My  lyre  be  broken,  and  untuned  my  tongue. 
My  griefs  be  doubled  from  thy  image  free. 
And  mirth  a  torment,  unchastised  by  thee! 

Oft  let  me'  range  the  gloomy  aisles  alone, 
(Sad  luxury  to  vulgar  minds  unknown) 
Along  the  walls  where  speaking  marbles  show 
What  worthies  form  the  hallowed  mould  below; 
Proud  names,  who  once  the  reins  of  empire  held; 
In  arms  who  triumphed,  or  in  arts  excelled; 


THOMAS    PAIINELL  83 

Chiefs  graced  with  scars  and  prodigal  of  blood; 
Stern  patriots  who  for  sacred  freedom  stood ; 
Just  men  by  whom  impartial  laws  were  given; 
And  saints  who  taught  and  led  the  way  to  Heaven. 
Ne'er  to  these  chambers,  where  the  mighty  rest, 
Since  their  foundation  came  a  nobler  guest; 
Nor  e'er  was  to  the  bowers  of  bliss  conveyed 
A  fairer  spirit  or  more  welcome  shade. 

That  awful  form  (which,  so  ye  Heavens  decree. 

Must  still  be  loved  and  still  deplored  by  me,) 

In  nightly  visions  seldom  fails  to  rise. 

Or,  roused  by  fancy,  meets  my  waking  eyes. 

If  business  calls  or  crowded  courts  invite, 

Th'  unblemished  statesman  seems  to  strike  my  sight; 

If  in  the  stage  I  seek  to  soothe  my  care, 

I  meet  his  soul  which  breathes  in  Cato  there; 

If  pensive  to  the  rural  shades  I  rove. 

His  shape  o'ertakes  me  in  the  lonely  grove; 

'Twas  there  of  just  and  good  he  reasoned  strong, 

Cleared  some  great  truth,  or  raised  some  serious  song: 

There  patient  showed  us  the  wise  course  to  steer, 

A  candid  censor,  and  a  friend  severe; 

There  taught  us  how  to  live,  and  (oh !  too  high 

The  price  for  knowledge)  taught  us  how  to  die. 


THOMAS    PARNELL 

•        From  A  NIGHT-PIECE  ON  DEATH 

By  the  blue  taper's  trembling  light, 
No  more  I  w^aste  the  wakeful  night. 
Intent  with  endless  view  to  pore 
The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o'er; 
Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray, 
Or  point  at  best  the  longest  way. 
I'll  seek  a  readier  path,  and  go 
Where  wisdom's  surely  taught  below. 


84  ENGLISH  POETS 

How  deep  yon  azure  dyes  the  sky, 
Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumbered  lie, 
While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 
The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide ! 
The  slumbering  breeze  forgets  to  breathe. 
The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath, 
Where  once  again  the  spangled  show 
Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 
The  grounds  which  on  the  right  aspire, 
In  dimness  from  the  view  retire: 
The  left  presents  a  place  of  graves, 
Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves. 
That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 
Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night. 
There  pass,  with  melancholy  state. 
By  all  the  solemn  heaps  of  fate, 
And  think,  as  softly-sad  you  tread 
Above  the  venerable  dead, 
'Time  was,  like  thee  they  life  possessed. 
And  time  shall  be,  that  thou  shalt  rest.' 

Those  graves,  with  bending  osier  bound. 
That  nameless  heave  the  crumbled  ground, 
Quick  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose, 
Where  toil  and  poverty  repose. 
The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a  name. 
The  chisel's  slender  help  to  fame, 
(Which  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay 
Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away;) 
A  middle  race  of  mortals  own, 
Men,  half  ambitious,  all  unknown. 
The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high, 
Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie. 
Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptured  stones, 
Arms,  angels,  epitaphs,  and  bones; 
These,  all  the  poor  remains  of  state. 
Adorn  the  rich,  or  praise  the  great; 
Who  while  on  earth  in  fame  they  live, 
Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 

Ha !  while  I  gaze,  pale  Cynthia  fades. 
The  bursting  earth  unveils  the  shades ! 


THOMAS   PARNELL  86 

All  slow,  and  wan,  and  wrapped  with  shrouds 
They  rise  in  visionary  crowds, 
And   all  with  sober  accent  cry, 
'Think,  mortal,  what  it  is  to  die.' 

Now  from  yon  black  and  funeral  yew 
That  bathes  the  charnel  house  with  dew 
Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  begin: 
(Ye  ravens,  cease  your  croaking  din ; 
Ye  tolling  clocks,  no  time  resoimd 
O'er  the  long  lake  and  midnight  ground) 
It  sends  a  peal  of  hollow  groans 
Thus  speaking  from  among  ijie  bones: 
'When  men  my  scythe  and  darts  supply. 
How  great  a  king  of  fears  am  I ! 
They  view  me  like  the  last  of  things: 
They  make,  and  then  they  dread,  my  stings. 
Fools !  if  you  less  provoked  your  fears, 
No  more  my  spectre-form  appears. 
Death's  but  a  path  that  must  be  trod 
If  man  would  ever  pass  to  God, 
A  port  of  calms,  a  state  of  ease 
From  the  rough  rage  of  swelling  seas.' 


A  HYMN   OF   CONTENTMENT 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind! 
Sweet  delight  of  humankind ! 
Heavenly-bom,  and  bred  on  high. 
To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know! 
Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled. 
To  lay  thy  meek,  contented  head  ? 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease? 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 

Of  pomp  and  state,  to  meet  thee  there. 

Increasing  Avarice  would  find 

Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 


86  ENGLISH   POETS 

The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way. 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea. 
To  gain  thy  love;  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 
The  silent  heart  which  grief  assails, 
Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  vales. 
Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 
And  seeks,  as  I  have  vainly  done, 
Amusing  thought;  but  learns  to  know 
That  solitude's  the  nurse  of  woe. 
No  real  happiness  is  found 
In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground; 
Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 
To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky, 
Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 
All  nature  in  its  forms  below; 
The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies, 
And  doubts  at  last,  for  knowledge,  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear! 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here, 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest. 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood. 
And  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved : 
It  seemed,  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confess'd  the  presence  of  the  Grace. 
When  thus  she  spoke — 'Go  rule  thy  will, 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still. 
Know  God,  and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow; 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest, 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest.' 

Oh !  by  yonder  mossy  seat, 
In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat. 
Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ, 
With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy! 


ALLAN   KAMSAY  87 

Raised  as  ancient  prophets  were, 

In  heavenly  vision,  praise,  and  prayer; 

Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none. 

Pleased  and  blessed  with  God  alone; 

Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 

With  all  the  colours  of  delight; 

While  silver  waters  glide  along, 

To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song; 

I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string. 

And  thee,  great  Source  of  nature,  sing. 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way, 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day ; 
The  moon  that  shines  with  borrowed  light; 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night; 
The  seas  that  roll  unnumbered  waves ; 
The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves; 
The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain, 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain; 
All  of  these,  and  all  I  see. 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me: 
They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can, 
But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams, 
Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes; 
And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss. 
Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 


ALLAN    KAMSAY 

From  THE  GENTLE  SHEPHERD 


PATIE    AND   ROGER 


Beneath  the  south  side  of  a  craigy  bield. 
Where  crystal  springs  the  halesome  waters  yield, 
Twa  youthfu'  shepherds  on  the  gowans  lay, 
Tenting  their  flocks  ae  bonny  morn  of  May. 


88  ENGLISH   POETS 

Poor  Eoger  granes,  till  hollow  echoes  ring; 
But  blither  Patie  likes  to  laugh  and  sing. 
Patie.     My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing, 
Just  entered  in  her  teens. 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  sweet  as  May, 
Fair  as  the  day,  and  always  gay; 
My  Peggy  is  a  young  thing. 

And  I'm  not  very  auld, 
Yet  well  I  like  to  meet  her  at 
The  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly 
Whene'er  we  meet  alane, 
I  wish  nae  mair  to  lay  my  care, 
I  wish  nae  mair  of  a'  that's  rare; 
My  Peggy  speaks  sae  sweetly. 

To  a'  the  lave  I'm  cauld. 
But  she  gars  a'  my  spirits  glow 
At  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly 
Whene'er  I  whisper  love, 
That  I  look  down  on  a'  the  town, 
That  I  look  down  upon  a  crown; 
My  Peggy  smiles  sae  kindly. 
It  makes  me  blythe  and  bauld, 
And  naething  gi'es  me  sic  delight 
At  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly 
When  on  my  pipe  I  play. 
By  a'  the  rest  it  is  confest, 
By  a'  the  rest,  that  she  sings  best; 
My  Peggy  sings  sae  saftly. 

And  in  her  sangs  are  tauld 
With  innocence  the  wale  of  sense, 
At  wauking  of  the  fauld. 

This  sunny  morning,  Roger,  chears  my  blood. 

And  puts  all  Nature  in  a  jovial  mood. 

How  hartsome  is't  to  see  the  rising  plants. 

To  hear  the  birds  chirm  o'er  their  pleasing  rants! 


ALLAN   RAMSAY  83 

How  halesom  'tis  to  snuff  the  cauler  air, 
And  all  the  sweets  it  bears,  when  void  of  care! 
What  ails  thee,  Roger,  then?  what  gars  thee  grane? 
Tell  roe  the  cause  of  thy  ill-seasoned  pain. 

Roger.  I'm  born,  O  Patie,  to  a  thrawart  fate; 
I'm  born  to  strive  with  hardships  sad  and  great! 
Tempests  may  cease  to  jaw  the  rowan  flood, 
Corbies  and  tods  to  grein  for  lambkins'  blood; 
But  I,  oppressed  with  never-ending  grief, 
Maun  ay  despair  of  lighting  on  relief. 

You  have  sae  saft  a  voice  and  slid  a  tongue, 

You  are  the  darling  of  baith  auld  and  young: 

If  I  but  ettle  at  a  sang  or  speak, 

They  dit  their  lugs,  syne  up  their  leglens  cleek. 

And  jeer  me  hameward  frae  the  loan  or  bught, 

While  I'm  confused  with  mony  a  vexing  thought; 

Yet  I  am  tall,  and  as  well  built  as  thee, 

Nor  mair  unlikely  to  a  lass's  eye; 

For  ilka  sheep  ye  have  I'll  number  ten, 

And  should,  as  ane  may  think,  come  farer  ben. 

Patie.     Daft  gowk!  leave  aff  that  silly  whinging  way! 
Seem  careless :  there's  my  hand  ye'll  win  the  day. 
Hear  how  I  served  my  lass  I  love  as  weel 
As  ye  do  Jenny  and  with  heart  as  leel. 
Last  morning  I  was  gay  and  early  out; 
Upon  a  dyke  I  leaned,  glowring  about. 
I  saw  my  Meg  come  linkan  o'er  the  lea; 
I  saw  my  Meg,  but  Peggy  saw  na  me, 
For  yet  the  sun  was  wading  thro'  the  mist, 
And  she  was  close  upon  me  e'er  slie  wist : 
Her  coats  were  kiltit,  and  did  sweetly  shaw 
Her  straight  bare  legs,  that  whiter  were  than  snaw. 
Her  cockernony  snooded  up  fou  sleek. 
Her  haffet-locks  hang  waving  on  her  cheek; 
Her  cheeks  sae  ruddy,  and  her  een  sae  'clear ; 
And,  oh,  her  mouth's  like  ony  hinny  pear ; 
Neat,  neat  she  was  in  bustine  waistcoat  clean. 
As  she  came  skiffing  o'er  the  dewy  green. 
Blythesome  I  cried,  'My  bonnie  Meg,  come  here! 
I  ferly  wherefore  ye're  sae  soon  asteer. 


90  ENGLISH  POETS 

iBut  I  can  guess  ye're  gawn  to  gather  dew.' 
She  scoured  awa,  and  said,  'What's  that  to  you?' 
'Then  fare  ye  weel,  Meg  Dorts,  and  e'en's  ye  like,' 
I  careless  cried,  and  lap  in  o'er  the  dyke. 
I  trow  when  that  she  saw,  within  a  crack 
She  came  with  a  right  thieveless  errand  back: 
Misca'd  me  first;  then  bade  me  hound  my  dog, 
To  wear  up  three  waff  ewes  strayed  on  the  bog. 
I  leugh,  an  sae  did  she:  then  with  great  haste 
I  clasped  my  arms  about  her  neck  and  waist, 
About  her  yielding  waist,  and  took  a  fourth 
Of  sweetest  kisses  frae  her  glowing  mouth; 
While  hard  and  fast  I  held  her  in  my  grips, 
My  very  saul  came  louping  to  my  lips; 
Sair,  sair  she  flet  wi'  me  'tween  ilka  smack. 
But  weel  I  kenned  she  meant  nae  as  she  spak. 
Dear  Eoger,  when  your  jo  puts  on  her  gloom, 
Do  ye  sae  too  and  never  fash  your  thumb: 
Seem  to  forsake  her,  soon  she'll  change  her  mood; 
Gae  woo  anither,  and  she'll  gang  clean  wood. 

Dear  Roger,  if  your  Jenny  geek. 

And  answer  kindness  with  a  slight, 
Seem  unconcerned  at  her  neglect; 

For  women  in  a  man  delight. 
But  them  despise  who're  soon  defeat 

And  with  a  simple  face  give  way 
To  a  repulse:  then  be  not  blate; 

Push  bauldly  on,  and  win  the  day. 

When  maidens,  innocently  young. 

Say  aften  what  they  never  mean, 
Ne'er  mind  their  pretty  lying  tongue, 

But  tent  the  language  of  their  een: 
If  these  agree,  and  she  persist 

To  answer  all  your  love  with  hate, 
Seek  elsewhere  to  be  better  blest. 

And  let  her  sigh  when  'tis  too  late. 

Roger.    Kind  Patie,  now  fair  fa'  your  honest  heart  I 
Ye're  ay  sae  cadgy,  and  have  sic  an  art 


AMBROSE   PHILIPS  91 

To  hearten  ane;  for  now,  as  clean's  a  leek, 

YeVe  cherished  me  since  ye  began  to  speak. 

Sae,  for  your  pains,  I'll  mak  ye  a  propine 

(My  mother,  rest  her  saul!  she  made  it  fine) — 

A  tartan  plaid,  spun  of  good  hawslock  woo. 

Scarlet  and  green  the  sets,  tlie  borders  blue. 

With  spraings  like  gowd  and  siller  crossed  with  black; 

I  never  had  it  yet  upon  my  back: 

Weel  are  ye  wordy  o'  't,  what  have  sae  kind 

Red  up  my  reveled  doubts  and  cleared  my  mind. 


AMBROSE    PHILIPS 

TO  MISS  CHARLOTTE  PULTENEY,  IN  HER 
MOTHER'S  ARMS 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight; 
Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease, 
Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please; 
Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale. 
Tattling  many  a  broken  tale, 
Singing  many  a  tuneless  song. 
Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue. 
Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 
Babbling  out  the  very  heart. 
Yet  abandoned  to  thy  will, 
Yet  imagining  no  ill. 
Yet  too  innocent  to  blush; 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush, 
To  the  mother-linnet's  note 
Moduling  her  slender  throat. 
Chirping  forth  thy  pretty  joys; 
Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys. 
Like  the  linnet  green,  in  May, 
Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray; 


92  ENGLISH   POETS 

Wearied  then,  and  glad  of  rest, 
Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest. 
This  thy  present  happy  lot, 
This,  in  time,  will  be  forgot; 
Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 
Ever-busy  Time  prepares; 
And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see 
This  picture  once  resembled  thee. 


JOIiN    DYER 
GEONGAR    HILL 


Silent  Nymph,  with  curious  eye! 

Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 

On  the  mountain's  lonely  van. 

Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man; 

Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 

While  the  yellow  linnet  sings; 

Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 

Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale; 

Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues. 

Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse; 

Now  while  Phoebus  riding  high 

Gives  lustre  to  the  land  and  sky! 

Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song, 

Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong; 

Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells 

Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells; 

Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made, 

So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill, 

Sate  upon  a  flowery  bed. 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head ; 

While  strayed  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 

Over  mead,  and  over  wood, 

From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 

'Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 


JOHN   DYER  93 

About  his  chequered  sides  I  wind, 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves,  and  grottoes  where  I  lay, 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day: 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale. 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal: 
The  mountains  round — unhappy  fate! 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies. 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise: 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads. 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 
And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 
What  a  landscape  lies  below! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene, 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene 
Does  the  face  of  nature  shew. 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow! 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise. 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies ! 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires! 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads ! 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks! 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise. 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes: 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew. 
The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows. 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs; 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 
Haunt  of  Phillis,  queen  of  love! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn. 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye! 


94  ENGLISH   POETS 

Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood, 
His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood. 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps; 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
On  mutual  dependence  find. 

'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode; 
'Tis  now  th'  apartment  of  the  toad; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds 
Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heaps  of  hoary  mouldered  walls. 
Yet  time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low. 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow. 
Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state; 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  fate! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day. 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run. 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow. 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep. 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep ! 
Thus  is  nature's  vesture  wrought. 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay, 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,   ever  new. 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow. 
The  woody  valleys  warm  and  low; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high. 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky; 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruined  tower. 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower; 


JOHN   DYER  95 

The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 
Each  gives  each  a  double  charm. 
As  pearls  upon  an  -^thiop's  arm. 

See,  on  the  mountain's  southern  side. 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide. 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide; 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye! 
A  step  methinks  may  pass  the  stream. 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem ; 
So  we  mistake  the  future's  face, 
Eyed  through  Hope's  deluding  glass; 
As  yon  summits  soft  and  fair 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air. 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near. 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way; 
The  present's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

O  may  I  with  myself  agree. 
And  never  covet  what  I  see: 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll. 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul: 
'Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air; 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings. 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  ily. 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky. 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts,  be  great  who  will; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill: 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor, 
In  vain  ye  search,  she  is  not  there; 
In  vain  ye  search  the  domes  of  Care! 


96  ENGLISH   POETS 

Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads,  and  mountain-heads. 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied. 
Ever  by  each  other's  side: 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill. 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still. 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 


GEORGE  BERKELEY 

VERSES   ON   THE   PROSPECT    OF   PLANTING 
ARTS   AND   LEARNING   IN   AMERICA 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  clime 

Barren  of  every  glorious  theme. 
In  distant  lands  now  waits  a  better  time, 

Producing  subjects  worthy  fame: 

In  happy  climes  where  from  the  genial  sun 
And  virgin  earth  such  scenes  ensue. 

The  force  of  art  in  nature  seems  outdone, 
And  fancied  beauties  by  the  true: 

In  happy  climes,  the  seat  of  innocence. 
Where  nature  guides  and  virtue  rules. 

Where  men  shall  not  impose  for  truth  and  sense 
The  pedantry  of  courts  and  schools. 

There  shall  be  sung  another  golden  age, 

The  rise  of  empire  and  of  arts, 
The  good  and  great  inspiring  epic  rage. 

The  wisest  heads  and  noblest  hearts. 

Not  such  as  Europe  breeds  in  her  decay; 

Such  as  she  bred  when  fresh  and  young, 
When  heavenly  flame  did  animate  her  clay. 

By  future  poets  shall  be  sung. 


JAMES    THOMSON  97 

Westward  the  course  of  empire  takes  its  way; 

The  four  first  acts  already  past, 
A  fifth  shall  close  the  drama  with  the  day; 

Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the  last. 


JAMES    THOMSON  ^^^.^^ 


O-y 


,,^,.tj,.,^^ 


THE    SE  ARSONS 

From  WINTEK 

"""     [Hardships  and  Benevolence]  ~^'' 

The  keener  tempests  come;  and,  fuming  dun 

From  all  the  livid  east  or  piercing  north,  ,  j 

Thick  clouds  ascend,  in  whose  capacious  womb     ^^-'TztA^^^y*'^ 

A  vapoury  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congealed.  '-^-^"^Jt--  ' 

Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along. 

And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 

Through  the  hushed  air  tlie  whitening  shower  descends, 

At  first  thin  wavering,  till  at  last  the  flakes  UX"^-^  " 

Fall  broad  and  wide  and  fast,  dimming  the  day  ^^^/,^^,^jyy^  tM-^rr- 

With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherished  fields        ^  _/^^„,<^>6c^  ^  ' 

Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white;  5      /?  ,^A^4 

'Tis  brightness  all,  save  where  the  new  snow  melts 

Along  the  mazy  current;  low  the  woods 

Bow  their  hoar  head ;  and  ere  the  languid  sun 

Faint  from  the  west  emits  his  evening  ray. 

Earth's  imiversal  face,  deep-hid  and  chill. 

Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 

The  works  of  man.    Drooping,  the  labourer-ox 

Stands  covered  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 

The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven. 

Tamed  by  fhe  cruel  season,  crowd  around 

The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 

Which  Providence  assigns  them.     One  alone, 

jThe  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 

Wisely  regardful  of  th'  embroiling  sky, 

In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 


98  ENGLISH   POETS 

His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 

His  annual  visit :  half-afraid,  he  first 

Against  the  window  beats;  then  brisk  alights 

On  the  warm  hearth ;  then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor, 

Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 

And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is. 

Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table-crumbs 

Attract  his  slender  feet.     The  foodless  wilds 

Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.     The  hare, 

Though  timorous  of  heart  and  hard  beset 

By  death  in  various  forms — dark  snares,  and  dogs, 

And  more  unpitying  men, — the  garden  seeks. 

Urged  on  by  fearless  want.     The  bleating  kind 

Eye  the  black  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening  earth, 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair;  then,  sad  dispersed, 

Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 

Now,  shepherds,  to  your  helpless  charge  be  kind: 
Baffle  the  raging  year,  and  fill  their  pens 
With  food  at  will;  lodge  them  below  the  storm. 
And  watch  them  strict,  for  from  the  bellowing  east, 
In  this  dire  season,  oft  the  whirlwind's  wing 
Sweeps  up  the  burthen  of  whole  wintry  plains 
At  one  wide  waft,  and  o'er  the  hapless  flocks, 
Hid  in  the  hollow  of  two  neighbouring  hills, 
The  billowy  tempest  whelms,  till,  upward  urged, 
The  valley  to  a  shining  mountain  swells. 
Tipped  with  a  wreath  high-curling  in  the  sky. 

As  thus  the  snows  arise,  and  foul  and  fierce 
All  Winter  drives  along  the  darkened  air. 
In  his  own  loose-revolving  fields  the  swain 
Disastered  stands;  sees  other  hills  ascend, 
Of  unknown,  joyless  brow,  and  other  scenes. 
Of  horrid  prospect,  shag  the  trackless  plain; 
Nor  finds  the  river  nor  the  forest,  hid 
Beneath  the  formless  wild,  but  wanders  on 
From  hill  to  dale,  still  more  and  more  astray, 
Impatient  flouncing  through  the  drifted  heaps. 
Stung  with  the  thoughts  of  home.     The  thoughts  of  home 
Rush  on  his  nerves,  and  call  their  vigour  forth 
In  many  a  vain  attempt.     How  sinks  his  soul. 
What  black  despair,  what  horror  fills  his  heart, 
When,  for  the  dusky  spot  which  fancy  feigned 


JAMES    THOMSON  99  ^ 

>^ 

His  tufted  cottage  rising  through  the  snow,  y"* 

He  meets  the  roughness  of  the  middle  waste, 
Far  from  the  track  and  blest  abode  of  man, 
While  round  him  night  resistless  closes  fast, 
And  every  tempest,  howling  o'er  his  head. 
Renders  the  savage  wilderness  more  wild ! 
Then  throng  the  busy  shapes  into  his  mind 
Of  covered  pits  unfathomably  deep 
(A  dire  descent!),  beyond  the  power  of  frost; 
Of  faithless  bogs ;  of  precipices  huge. 
Smoothed  up  with  snow;  and — what  is  land  unknown. 
What  water — of  the  still  unfrozen  spring, 
In  the  loose  marsh  or  solitary  lake, 
Where  the  fresh  fountain  from  the  bottom  boils. 
These  clieck  his  fearful  steps;  and  down  he  sinks 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  the  shapeless  drift. 
Thinking  o'er  all  the  bitterness  of  death, 
Mixed  with  the  tender  anguish  nature  shoots 
Through  the  wrung  bosom  of  the  dying  man — 
His  wife,  his  children,  and  his  friends  unseen. 
In  vain  for  him  th'  officious  wife  prepares 
The  fire  fair-blazing  and  the  vestment  warm; 
In  vain  his  little  children,  peeping  out  ■J'' 

Into  the  mingling  storm,  demand  their  sire, 
With  tears  of  artless  innocence.     Alas ! 
Nor  wife  nor  children  more  shall  he  behold. 
Nor  friends  nor  sacred  home:  on  every  nerve 
The  deadly  Winter  seizes,  shuts  up  sense. 
And,  o'er  his  inmost  vitals  creeping  cold. 

Lays  him  along  the  snows  a  stiffened  corse,  > 

Stretched  out  and  bleaching  in  the  northern  blast.  w 

Ah,  little  think  the  gay  licentious  proud  '  \ 

Whom  pleasure,  power,  and  affluence  surround; 
They  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth. 
And  wanton,  often  cruel,  riot  waste; 
Ah,  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 
How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death 
And  all  the  sad  variety  of  pain : 
How  many  sink  in  the  devouring  flood, 
Or  more  devouring  flame;  how  many  bleed, 
By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man; 
How  many  pine  in  want,  and  dungeon  glooms. 


100  ENGLISH   POETS 

Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 

Of  their  own  limbs;  how  many  drink  the  cup 

Of  baleful  grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 

Of  misery;  sore  pierced  by  wintry  winds, 

How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 

Of  cheerless  poverty;  how  many  shake 

With  all  the  fiercer  tortures  of  the  mind, 

Unbounded  passion,  madness,  guilt,  remorse; 

Whence  tumbled  headlong  from  the  height  of  life, 

They  furnish  matter  for  the  tragic  Muse; 

Even  in  the  vale,  where  wisdom  loves  to  dwell. 

With  friendship,  peace,  and  contemplation  joined, 

How  many,  racked  with  honest  passions,  droop 

In  deep  retired  distress;  how  many  stand 

Around  the  deathbed  of  their  dearest  friends. 

And  point  the  parting  anguish.     Thought  fond  man 

Of  these,  and  all  the  thousand  nameless  ills. 

That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life. 

One  scene  of  toil,  of  suffering,  and  of  fate. 

Vice  in  his  high  career  would  stand  appalled,  ^ 

And  heedless  rambling  impulse  learn  to  think;     .    J*^ 

The  conscious  heart  of  charity  would  warm,  (,K    /^/ 

And  her  wide  wish  benevolence  dilate;  _  \> 

The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh;  ,/ 

And  into  clear  perfection,  gradual  bliss,  ■    i ' 

Eefining  still,  the  social  passions  work. 

From  SUMMER 

[Life's  Meaning  to  the  Generous  Mind] 

Eorever  running  an  enchanted  round, 

Passes  the  day,  deceitful  vain  and  void. 

As  fleets  the  vision  o'er  the  formful  brain. 

This  moment  hurrying  wild  th'  impassioned  soul. 

The  next  in  nothing  lost.     'Tis  so  to  him. 

The  dreamer  of  this  earth,  an  idle  blank; 

A  sight  of  horror  to  the  cruel  wretch. 

Who  all  day  long  in  sordid  pleasure  rolled. 

Himself  an  useless  load,  has  squandered  vile. 

Upon  his  scoundrel  train,  what  might  have  cheered 

A  drooping  family  of  modest  worth. 


JAMES    THOMSON  101 

But  to  the  generous  still-improving  mind, 
That  gives  the  hopeless  heart  to  sing  for  joy, 
Diffusing  kind  beneficence  around, 
Boastless, — as  now  descends  the  silent  dew, — 
To  him  the  long  review  of  ordered  life 
Is  inward  rapture,  only  to  be  felt. 

From  SPKING 
[The  Divine  Force  in  Spring] 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  ethereal  mildness,  come! 
And  from  the  bosom  of  yon  dropping  cloud. 
While  music  wakes  around,  veiled  in  a  shower 
Of  shadowing  roses,  on  our  plains  descend! 

O  Hertford,  fitted  or  to  shine  in  courts 
With  unaffected  grace,  or  walk  the  plain 
With  Innocence  and  Meditation  joined 
In  soft  assemblage,  listen  to  my  song. 
Which  thy  own  season  paints,  when  nature  all 
Is  blooming  and  benevolent,  like  thee. 

And  see  where  surly  Winter  passes  off. 
Far  to  the  north,  and  calls  his  ruffian  blasts: 
His  blasts  obey,  and  quit  the  howling  hill. 
The  shattered  forest,  and  the  ravaged  vale; 
While  softer  gales  succeed,  at  whose  kind  touch — 
Dissolving  snows  in  livid  torrents  lost — 
The  mountains  lift  their  green  heads  to  the  sky. 
As  yet  the  trembling  year  is  unconfirmed, 
And  Winter  oft  at  eve  resumes  the  breeze, 
Chills  the  pale  morn,  and  bids  his  driving  sleets 
Deform  the  day  delightless ;  so  that  scarce 
The  bittern  knows  his  time,  with  bill  engulfed. 
To  shake  the  sounding  marsh,  or  from  the  shore 
The  plovers  when  to  scatter  o'er  the  heath 
And  sing  their  wild  notes  to  the  listening  waste. 
At  last  from  Aries  rolls  the  bounteous  sun, 
And  the  bright  Bull  receives  him.     Then  no  more 
Th'  expansive  atmosphere  is  cramped  with  cold. 
But,  full  of  life  and  vivifying  soul, 
Lifts  the  light  clouds  sublime  and  spreads  them  thin, 
Fleecy  and  white,  o'er  all-surrounding  heaven; 


102  ENGLISH   POETS 

Forth  fly  the  tepid  airs,  and,  unconfined, 
Unbinding  earth,  the  moving  softness  strays. 
Joyous,  th'  impatient  husbandman  perceives 
Relenting  nature,  and  his  lusty  steers 
Drives  from  their  stalls,  to  where  the  well-used  plough 
Lies  in  the  furrow,  loosened  from  the  frost; 
There,  unrefusing,  to  the  harnessed  yoke 
They  lend  their  shoulder,  and  begin  their  toil, 
Cheered  by  the  simple  song  and  soaring  lark; 
Meanwhile  incumbent  o'er  the  shining  share 
The  master  leans,  removes  th'  obstructing  clay. 
Winds  the  whole  work,  and  sidelong  lays  the  glebe. 
White  through  the  neighbouring  fields  the  sower  stalks, 
With  measured  step,  and  liberal  throws  the  grain 
Into  the  faithful  bosom  of  the  ground; 
The  harrow  follows  harsh,  and  shuts  the  scene. 
Be  gracious.  Heaven !  for  now  laborious  man 
Has  done  his  part.    Ye  fostering  breezes,  blow ! 
Ye  softening  dews,  ye  tender  showers,  descend ! 
And  temper  all,  thou  world-reviving  sun, 
Into  the  perfect  year !    Nor  ye  who  live 
In  luxury  and  ease,  in  pomp  and  pride. 
Think  these  lost  themes  unworthy  of  your  ear. 
Such  themes  as  these  the  rural  Maro  sung 
To  wide-imperial  Rome,  in  the  full  height 
Of  elegance  and  taste,  by  Greece  refined. 
In  ancient  times,  the  sacred  plough  employed 
The  kings  and  awful  fathers  of  mankind; 
And  some,  with  whom  compared  your  insect  tribes 
Are  but  the  beings  of  a  summer^s  day. 
Have  held  the  scale  of  empire,  ruled  the  storm 
Of  mighty  war,  then  with  victorious  hand. 
Disdaining  little  delicacies,  seized 
The  plough,  and,  greatly  independent,  scorned 
All  the  vile  stores  corruption  can  bestow. 
Ye  generous  Britons,  venerate  the  plough ; 
And  o'er  your  hills  and  long-withdrawing  vales 
Let  Autumn  spread  his  treasures  to  the  sun. 
Luxuriant  and  unbounded !     As  the  sea, 
Far  through  his  azure,  turbulent  domain. 
Your  empire  owns,  and  from  a  thousand  shores 
Wafts  all  the  pomp  of  life  into  your  ports, 


JAMES    THOMSON  103 

So  with  superior  boon  may  your  rich  soil, 
Exuberant,  Nature's  better  blessings  pour 
O'er  every  land,  the  naked  nations  clothe, 
And  be  th'  exhaustless  granary  of  a  world. 

Nor  only  through  the  lenient  air  this  change, 
Delicious,  breathes :  the  penetrative  sun. 
His  force  deep-darting  to  the  dark  retreat 
Of  vegetation,  sets  the  steaming  power 
At  large,  to  wander  o'er  the  verdant  earth. 
In  various  hues — but  chiefly  thee,  gay  green! 
Thou  smiling  Nature's  universal  robe, 
United  light  and  shade,  where  the  sight  dwells 
With  growing  strength  and  ever  new  delight. 
From  the  moist  meadow  to  the  withered  hill. 
Led  by  the  breeze,  the  vivid  verdure  runs, 
And  swells  and  deepens  to  the  cherished  eye. 
The  hawthorn  whitens;  and  the  juicy  groves 
Put  forth  their  buds,  unfolding  by  degrees. 
Till  the  whole  leafy  forest  stands  displayed 
In  full  luxuriance  to  the  sighing  gales, 
Where  the  deer  rustle  through  the  twining  brake, 
And  the  birds  sing  concealed.    At  once,  arrayed 
In  all  the  colours  of  the  flushing  year 
By  Nature's  swift  and  secret-working  hand, 
The  garden  glows,  and  fills  the  liberal  air 
With  lavished  fragrance,  while  the  promised  fruit 
Lies  yet  a  little  embryo,  unperceived. 
Within  its  crimson  folds.     Now  from  the  town, 
Buried  in  smoke  and  sleep  and  noisome  damps. 
Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  dewy  fields. 
Where  freshness  breathes,  and  dash  the  trembling 

drops 
From  the  bent  bush,  as  through  the  verdant  maze 
Of  sweet-briar  hedges  I  pursue  my  walk; 
Or  taste  the  smell  of  dairy;  or  ascend 
Some  eminence,  Augusta,  in  thy  plains, 
And  see  the  country,  far  diffused  around. 
One  boundless  blush,  one  white-empurpled  shower 
Of  mingled  blossoms,  where  the  raptured  eye 
Hurries  from  joy  to  joy,  and,  hid  beneath 
The  fair  profusion,  yellow  Autumn  spies. 


104  ENGLISH   POETS 

What  is  this  mighty  breath,  ye  sages,  say, 
That  in  a  powerful  language,  felt  not  heard, 
Instructs  the  fowl  of  heaven,  and  through  their 

breast 
These  arts  of  love  diffuses  ?    What  but  God  ? 
Inspiring  God !  who  boundless  spirit  all. 
And  unremitting  energy,  pervades. 
Adjusts,  sustains,  and  agitates  the  whole. 
He  ceaseless  works  alone,  and  yet  alone 
Seems  not  to  work ;  with  such  perfection  framed 
Is  this  complex,  stupendous  scheme  of  things. 
But,  though  concealed,  to  every  purer  eye 
Th'  informing  author  in  his  works  appears: 
Chief,  lovely  Spring,  in  thee,  and  thy  soft  scenes, 
The  smiling  God  is  seen;  while  water,  earth. 
And  air  attest  his  bounty ;  which  exalts 
The  brute  creation  to  this  finer  thought. 
And  annual  melts  their  undesigning  hearts 
Profusely  thus  in  tenderness  and  joy. 

Still  let  my  song  a  nobler  note  assume. 
And  sing  th'  infusive  force  of  Spring  on  man. 
When  heaven  and  earth,  as  if  contending,  vie 
To  raise  his  being,  and  serene  his  soul. 
Can  he  forbear  to  join  the  general  smile 
Of  nature?     Can  fierce  passions  vex  his  breast, 
While  every  gale  is  peace,  and  every  grove 
Is  melody?    Hence  from  the  bounteous  walks 
Of  flowing  Spring,  ye  sordid  sons  of  earth, 
Hard,  and  unfeeling  of  another's  woe; 
Or  only  lavish  to  yourselves;  away! 
But  come,  ye  generous  minds,  in  whose  wide 

thought. 
Of  all  his  works,  creative  bounty  bums 
With  warmest  beam! 

From   AUTUMN  .  L 

[The  Pleasing  Sadness  of  the  Declining  Tear] 

But  see!  the  fading  many-coloured  woods. 
Shade  deepening  over  shade,  the  country  round 
Imbrown,  a  crowded  umbrage,  dusk  and  dun. 


JAMES    THOMSON  105 

Of  every  hue  from  wan  declining  green 

To  sooty  dark.     These  now  the  lonesome  Muse, 

Low-whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strown  walks, 

And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. 

Meantime,  light-shadowing  all,  a  sober  calm 

Fleeces  unbounded  ether,  whose  least  wave 

Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 

The  gentle  current,  while,  illumined  wide. 

The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 

And  through  their  lucid  veil  his  softened  force 

Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.    Then  is  the  time, 

For  those  whom  wisdom  and  whom  nature  charm. 

To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 

And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things. 

To  tread  low-thoughted  Vice  beneath  their  feet,     .      „. 

To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace,     \^    >lf 

And  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks.  ^        '' 

Thus  solitary,  and  in  pensive  guise. 

Oft  let  me  wander  o'er  the  russet  mead 

And  through  the  saddened  grove,  where  scarce  is 

heard 
One  dying  strain  to  cheer  the  woodman's  toil. 
Haply  some  widowed  songster  pours  his  plaint,  y 

Far,  in  faint  warblings,  through  the  tawny  copse ;       -. ' 
While  congregated  thrushes,  linnets,  larks, 
And  each  wild  throat  whose  artless  strains  so  late 
Swelled  all  the  music  of  the  swarming  shades. 
Robbed  of  their  tuneful  souls,  now  shivering  sit 
On  the  dead  tree,  a  dull  despondent  flock. 
With  not  a  brightness  waving  o'er  their  plumes, 
And  naught  save  chattering  discord  in  their  note. 
Oh,  let  not,  aimed  from  some  inhuman  eye, 
The  gun  the  music  of  the  coming  year 
Destroy,  and  harmless,  unsuspecting  harm, 
Lay  the  weak  tribes  a  miserable  prey. 
In  mingled  murder  fluttering  on  the  ground  I 
The  pale  descending  year,  yet  pleasing  still, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires :  for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove. 
Oft  startling  such  as,  studious,  walk  below. 
And  slowly  circles  through  the  waving  air; 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 


106 


ENGLISH   POETS 


Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams, 
Till,  choked  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shower. 
The  forest  walks,  at  every  rising  gale, 
Roll  wide  the  withered  waste  and  whistle  bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields, 
And,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign;  even  what  remained 
Of  stronger  fruits  fall  from  the  naked  tree; 
And  woods,  fields,  gardens,  orchards,  all  around, 
The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul. 


A   HYMN       i\\  «.;^'" 

[Concluding  the  Seasons] 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these. 
Are  but  the  varied  God.-    The  rolling  year 
Is  full  of  Thee.    Forth  in  the  pleasing  Spring 
Thy  beauty  walks,  thy  tenderness  and  love. 
Wide-flush  the  fields;  the  softening  air  is  balm; 
Echo  the  mountains  round;  the  forest  smiles; 
And  every  sense,  and  every  heart  is  joy. 
Then  comes  thy  glory  in  the  summer-months. 
With  light  and  heat  refulgent.     Then  thy  sun 
Shoots  full  perfection  through  the  swelling  year:   "^ 
And  oft  thy  voice  in  dreadful  thunder  speaks;      ^ 
And  oft  at  dawn,  deep  noon,  or  falling  eve. 
By  brooks  and  groves,  in  hollow-whispering  gales. 
Thy  bounty  shines  in  autumn  unconfined. 
And  spreads  a  common  feast  for  all  that  lives. 
In  winter  awful  thou !  with  clouds  and  storms 
Around  thee  thrown,  tempest  o'er  tempest  rolled 
Majestic  darkness !  on  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
Hiding  sublime,  thou  bidst  the  world  adore. 
And  humblest  nature  with  thy  northern  blast. 

Mysterious  round!  what  skill,  what  force  Divine, 
Deepfelt,  in  these  appear!  a  simple  train, 
Yet  so  delightful  mixed,  with  such  kind  art. 
Such  beauty  and  beneficence  combined : 
Shade,  unperceived,  so  softening  into  shade; 
And  all  so  forming  an  harmonious  whole; 


V 


V 


^ 


JAMES    THOMSON  107 

That,  as  they  still  succeed,  they  ravish  still. 
But  wandering  oft,  with  brute  unconscious  gaze, 
Man  marks  not  Thee,  marks  not  the  mighty  hand; 
That,  ever-busy,  wheels  the  silent  spheres; 
Works  in  the  secret  deep ;  shoots,  steaming,  thence 
The  fair  profusion  that  o'erspreads  the  spring : 
Flings  from  the  sun  direct  the  flaming  day; 
Feeds  every  creature;  hurls  the  tempest  forth; 
And,  as  on  earth  this  grateful  change  revolves. 
With  transport  touches  all  the  springs  of  life. 

Nature,  attend !  join  every  living  soul, 
Beneath  the  spacious  temple  of  the  sky, 
In  adoration  join;  and  ardent  raise 
One  general  song !     To  Him,  ye  vocal  gales. 
Breathe  soft,   whose  spirit   in   your   freshness 

breathes. 
Oh,  talk  of  Him  in  solitary  glooms 
Where  o'er  the  rock  the  scarcely  waving  pine 
Fills  the  brown  shade  with  a  religious  awe; 
And  ye,  whose  bolder  note  is  heard  afar, 
Who  shake  the  astonished  world,  lift  high  to 

heaven 
Th'  impetuous  song,  and  say  from  whom  you  rage. 
His  praise,  ye  brooks,  attune,  ye  trembling  rills; 
And  let  me  catch  it  as  I  muse  along. 
Ye  headlong  torrents,  rapid  and  profound; 
Ye  softer  floods,  that  lead  the  humid  maze 
Along  the  vale;  and  thou,  majestic  main, 
A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 
Sound  His  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater  voice 
Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 
So  roll  your  incense,  herbs,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 
In  mingled  clouds  to  Him,  whose  sun  exalts, 
Whose   breath  perfumes  you,   and   whose   pencil 

paints. 
Ye  forests,  bend,  ye  harvests,  wave  to  Him; 
Breathe  your  still  song  into  the  reaper's  heart. 
As  home  he  goes  beneath  the  joyous  moon. 
Ye  that  keep  watch  in  Heaven,  as  earth  asleep 
Unconscious  lies,  effuse  your  mildest  beams; 
Ye  constellations,  while  your  angels  strike, 
Amid  the  spangled  sky,  the  silver  lyre. 


108  ENGLISH  POETS 

Great  source  of  day!  blest  image  here  below 
Of  thy  Creator,  ever  pouring  wide, 
From  world  to  world,  the  vital  ocean  round, 
On  nature  write  with  every  beam  His  praise. 
The  thunder  rolls :  be  hushed  the  prostrate  world, 
While  cloud  to  cloud  returns  the  solemn  hymn. 
Bleat  out  afresh,  ye  hills;  ye  mossy  rocks, 
Retain  the  sound;  the  broad  responsive  low. 
Ye  valleys,  raise;  for  the  Great  Shepherd  reigns, 
And  his  unsuftering  kingdom  yet  will  come. 
Ye  woodlands,  all  awake;  a  boundless  song 
Burst  from  the  groves ;  and  when  the  restless  day, 
Expiring,  lays  the  warbling  world  asleep. 
Sweetest  of  birds !  sweet  Philomela,  charm 
The   listening  shades,   and  teach  the  night  His 

praise. 
Ye  chief,  for  whom  the  whole  creation  smiles; 
At  once  the  head,  the  heart,  the  tongue  of  all. 
Crown  the  great  hymn !  in  swarming  cities  vast, 
Assembled  men  to  the  deep  organ  join 
The  long  resounding  voice,  oft  breaking  clear. 
At  solemn  pauses,  through  the  swelling  base; 
And,  as  each  mingling  flame  increases  each, 
In  one  united  ardour  rise  to  Heaven. 
Or  if  you  rather  choose  the  rural  shade. 
And  find  a  fane  in  every  sacred  grove, 
There  let  the  shepherd's  lute,  the  virgin's  lay. 
The  prompting  seraph,  and  the  poet's  lyre, 
Still  sing  the  God  of  Seasons  as  they  roll. 
For  me,  when  I  forget  the  darling  theme. 
Whether  the  blossom  blows,  the  Summer  ray 
Russets  the  plain,  inspiring  Autumn  gleams. 
Or  Winter  rises  in  the  blackening  east — 
Be  my  tongue  mute,  my  fancy  paint  no  more. 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat. 

Should  Fate  command  me  to  the  furthest  verge 
Of  the  green  earth,  to  distant  barbarous  climes. 
Rivers  unknown  to  song;  where  first  the  sun 
Gilds  Indian  mountains,  or  his  setting  beam 
Flames  on  the  Atlantic  isles,  'tis  nought  to  me; 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full ; 


JAMES    THOMSON  109 

And  where  He  vital  breathes,  there  must  be  joy. 

When  even  at  last  the  solemn  hour  shall  come, 

And  wing  my  mystic  flight  to  future  worlds,  ,- 

I  cheerfully  will  obey;  there  with  new  powers,  \y 

Will  rising  wonders  sing.     I  cannot  go 

Where  Universal  Love  not  smiles  around, 

Sustaining  all  yon  orbs,  and  all  their  suns ; 

From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good. 

And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still,       ^r      . . 

In  infinite  progression.     But  I  lose  ,<    ^^  ■ 

Myself  in  Him,  in  Light  ineffable ! 

Come,  then,  expressive  silence,  muse  His  praise. 


[KULE,   BEITANNIA] 
An  Ode:    From  Alfred,  a  Masque 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sang  this  strain : 

Rule,  Britannia,  Britannia  rules  the  waves! 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves ! 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee, 

Must  in  their  turns  to  tyrants  fall. 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free. 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise. 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies. 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame; 

And  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 


110  ENGLISH  POETS 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found. 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair; 
Blest  isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 

And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair! 
Rule,  Britannia,  etc. 

From    THE   CASTLE    OF   INDOLENCE 

O  mortal  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil,  -^  T 

Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate:    ^' 
That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil 
Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date; 
And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great. 
For  though  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and  wail, 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and  late, 
Withouten  that  would  come  an  heavier  bale— r 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale.  ^/ 

In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side. 
With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompassed  round, 
A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide. 
Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere  found. 
It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground ; 
And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 
Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half  imbrowned, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say, 
No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  even  for  play. 

Was  naught  around  but  images  of  rest : 
Sleep-soothing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between; 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumbrous  influence  kest. 
From  poppies  breathed ;  and  beds  of  pleasant  green, 
Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime  unnumbered  glittering  streamlets  played, 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen, 


JAMES    THOMSON  111 

That,  as  they  bickered  through  the  sunny  glade, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  murmur  made. 

Joined  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills, 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale, 
And  flocks  loud-bleating  from  the  distant  hills, 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale; 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail, 
Or  stock  doves  'plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep : 
Yet  all  these  sounds,  yblent,  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale,  above, 
A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood. 
Where  naught  but  shadowy  forms  was  seen  to  move. 
As  Idless  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood; 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro. 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out,  below, 
The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely  heard,  to  flow. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsyhed  it  was: 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half -shut  eye; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass. 
Forever  flushing  round  a  summer  sky. 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast, 
And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hovered  nigh; 
But  whate'er  smacked  of  'noyance  or  unrest 
Was  far,  far  off  expelled  from  this  delicious  nest. 

The  landskip  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease. 
Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 
Close-hid  his  castle  mid  embowering  trees. 
That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus  bright, 
And  made  a  kind  of  checkered  day  and  night. 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate, 
Beneath  a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  placed ;  and,  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate 
And  labour  harsh  complained,  lamenting  man's  estate. 


112  ENGLISH   POETS 

Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still, 
From  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass  there  by; 
For,  as  they  chaunced  to  breathe  on  neighbouring  hill. 
The  freshness  of  this  valley  smote  their  eye, 
And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh, 
Till  clustering  round  th'  enchanter  false  they  hung, 
Ymolten  with  his  syren  melody, 
While  o'er  th'  enfeebling  lute  his  hand  he  flung, 
And  to  the  trembling  chords  these  tempting  verses  sung: 

'Behold,  ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold ! 
See  all  but  man  with  unearned  pleasure  gay ! 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold. 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of  May. 
What  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array? 
Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie? 
From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to  stray. 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to  fly, 
Is  all  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant  sky. 

'Behold  the  merry  minstrels  of  the  morn. 
The  swarming  songsters  of  the  careless  grove. 
Ten  thousand  throats  that,  from  the  flowering  thorn, 
Hymn  their  good  God  and  carol  sweet  of  love, 
Such  grateful  kindly  raptures  them  emove! 
They  neither  plough  nor  sow ;  ne,  fit  for  flail, 
E'er  to  the  barn  the  nodding  sheaves  they  drove; 
Yet  theirs  each  harvest  dancing  in  the  gale, 
Whatever  crowns  the  hill  or  smiles  along  the  vale. 

'Outcast  of  Nature,  man !  the  wretched  thrall 
Of  bitter-dropping  sweat,  of  sweltry  pain. 
Of  cares  that  eat  away  thy  heart  with  gall, 
And  of  the  vices,  an  inhuman  train, 
That  all  proceed  from  savage  thirst  of  gain : 
For  when  hard-hearted  Interest  first  began 
To  poison  earth,  Astrsea  left  the  plain ; 
Guile,  violence,  and  murder  seized  on  man,^ 
And,  for  soft  milky  streams,  with  blood  the  rivers  ran.' 


JAMES    THOMSON  113 

He  ceased.    But  still  their  trembling  ears  retained 
The  deep  vibrations  of  his  'witching  song, 
That,  by  a  kind  of  magic  power,  constrained 
To  enter  in,  pell-mell,  the  listening  throng: 
Heaps  poured  on  heaps,  and  yet  they  slipped  along 
In  silent  ease;  as  when  beneath  the  beam 
Of  summer  moons,  the  distant  woods  among, 
Or  by  some  flood  all  silvered  with  the  gleam, 
The  soft-embodied  fays  through  airy  portal  stream. 


Of  all  the  gentle  tenants  of  the  place, 

There  was  a  man  of  special  grave  remark ; 

A  certain  tender  gloom  o'erspread  his  face. 

Pensive,  not  sad;  in  thought  involved,  not  dark; 

As  soote  this  man  could  sing  as  morning  lark. 

And  teach  the  noblest  morals  of  the  heart; 

But  these  his  talents  were  yburied  stark: 

Of  the  fine  stores  he  nothing  would  impart, 

Which  or  boon  Nature  gave,  or  nature-painting  Art. 

To  noontide  shades  incontinent  he  ran. 

Where  purls  the  brook  with  sleep-inviting  sound, 

Or  when  Dan  Sol  to  slope  his  wheels  began, 

Amid  the  broom  he  basked  him  on  the  ground, 

Where  the  wild  thyme  and  camomil  are  found; 

There  would  he  linger,  till  the  latest  ray 

Of  light  sate  trembling  on  the  welkin's  bound, 

Then  homeward  through  the  twilight  shadows  stray, 

Sauntering  and  slow:  so  had  he  passed  many  a  day. 

Yet  not  in  thoughtless  slumber  were  they  passed; 

For  oft  the  heavenly  fire,  that  lay  concealed 

Beneath  the  sleeping  embers,  mounted  fast. 

And  all  its  native  light  anew  revealed; 

Oft  as  he  traversed  the  cerulean  field. 

And  marked  the  clouds  that  drove  before  the  wind, 

Ten  thousand  glorious  systems  would  he  build. 

Ten  thousand  great  ideas  filled  his  mind: 

But  with  the  clouds  they  fled,  and  left  no  trace  behind. 


114  ENGLISH   POETS 

EDWARD   YOUNG 

From  LOVE  OF  FAME 

ON    WOMEN 

Such  blessings  Nature  pours, 
O'erstocked  mankind  enjoy  but  half  her  stores : 
In  distant  wilds,  by  human  eyes  unseen, 
She  rears  her  flowers,  and  spreads  her  velvet  green: 
Pure,  gurgling  rills  the  lonely  desert  trace. 
And  waste  their  music  on  the  savage  race. 
Is  Nature  then  a  niggard  of  her  bliss? 
Repine  we  guiltless  in  a  world  like  this? 
But  our  lewd  tastes  her  lawful  charms  refuse, 
And  painted  art's  depraved  allurements  choose. 
Such  Fulvia's  passion  for  the  town ;  fresh  air 
(An  odd  effect!)  gives  vapours  to  the  fair; 
Green  fields,  and  shady  groves,  and  crystal  springs, 
And  larks,  and  nightingales,  are  odious  things ; 
But  smoke,  and  dust,  and  noise,  and  crowds,  delight; 
And  to  be  pressed  to  death,  transports  her  quite : 
Where  silver  rivulets  play  through  flowery  meads. 
And  woodbines  give  their  sweets,  and  limes  their  shades, 
Black  kennels'  absent  odours  she  regrets, 
And  stops  her  nose  at  beds  of  violets. 

Few  to  good-breeding  make  a  just  pretense; 

Good-breeding  is  the  blossom  of  good-sense ; 

The  last  result  of  an  accomplished  mind, 

With  outward  grace,  the  body's  virtue,  joined. 

A  violated  decency  now  reigns; 

And  nymphs  for  failings  take  peculiar  pains. 

With  Chinese  painters  modern  toasts  agree, 

The  point  they  aim  at  is  deformity: 

They  throw  their  persons  with  a  hoyden  air 

Across  the  room,  and  toss  into  the  chair. 

So  far  their  commerce  with  mankind  is  gone, 

They,  for  our  manners,  have  exchanged  their  own. 


EDWAKD   YOUNG  115 

The  modest  look,  the  castigated  grace, 
The  gentle  movement,  and  slow-measured  pace, 
For  which  her  lovers  died,  her  parents  prayed, 
Are  indecorums  with  the  modern  maid. 


What  swarms  of  amorous  grandmothers  I  see! 
And  misses,  ancient  in  iniquity! 
What  blasting  whispers,  and  what  loud  declaiming! 
What  lying,  drinking,  bawding,  swearing,  gaming! 
Friendship  so  cold,  such  warm  incontinence; 
Such  griping  avarice,  such  profuse  expense; 
Such  dead  devotion,  such  a  zeal  for  crimes; 
Such  licensed  ill,  such  masquerading  times; 
Such  venal  faith,  such  misapplied  applause; 
Such  flattered  guilt,  and  such  inverted  laws! 

Such  dissolution  through  the  whole  I  find, 
'Tis  not  a  world,  but  chaos  of  mankind. 
Since  Sundays  have  no  balls,  the  well-dressed  belle 
Shines  in  the  pew,  but  smiles  to  hear  of  Hell; 
And  casts  an  eye  of  sweet  disdain  on  all 
Who  listen  less  to  Collins  than  St.  Paul. 
Atheists  have  been  but  rare;  since  Nature's  birth 
Till  now,  she-atheists  ne'er  appeared  on  earth. 
Ye  men  of  deep  researches,  say,  whence  springs 
This  daring  character,  in  timorous  things? 
Who  start  at  feathers,  from  an  insect  fly, 
A  match  for  nothing — but  the  Deity. 
But,  not  to  wrong  the  fair,  the  Muse  must  own 
In  this  pursuit  they  court  not  fame  alone; 
But  join  to  that  a  more  substantial  view, 
'From  thinking  free,  to  be  free  agents,  too.' 

They  strive  with  their  own  hearts,  and  keep  them  down, 
In  complaisance  to  all  the  fools  in  town. 
O  how  they  tremble  at  the  name  of  prude! 
And  die  with  shame  at  thought  of  being  good! 
For,  what  will  Artimis,  the  rich  and  gay. 
What  will  the  wits,  that  is,  the  coxcombs,  say? 
They  Heaven  defy,  to  earth's  vile  dregs  a  slave; 
Through  cowardice,  most.execrably  brave. 
With  our  own  judgments  durst  we  to  comply. 
In  virtue  should  we  live,  in  glory  die. 


116  ENGLISH  POETS 

Rise  then,  my  Muse,  in  honest  fury  rise; 
They  dread  a  satire  who  defy  the  skies. 

Atheists  are  few:  most  nymphs  a  Godhead  own; 
And  nothing  but  his  attributes  dethrone. 
From  atheists  far,  they  steadfastly  believe 
God  is,  and  is  almighty — to  forgive. 
His  other  excellence  they'll  not  dispute; 
But  mercy,  sure,  is  his  chief  attribute. 
Shall  pleasures  of  a  short  duration  chain 
A  lady's  soul  in  everlasting  pain? 
Will  the  great  Author  us  poor  worms  destroy, 
For  now  and  then  a  sip  of  transient  joy  ? 
No;  he's  forever  in  a  smiling  mood; 
He's  like  themselves;  or  how  could  he  be  good? 
And  they  blaspheme,  who  blacker  schemes  suppose. 
Devoutly,  thus,  Jehovah  they  depose. 
The  pure !  the  just !  and  set  up,  in  his  stead, 
A  deity  that's  perfectly  well-bred. 

'Dear  Tillotson !  be  sure  the  best  of  men ; 
Nor  thought  he  more  than  thought  great  Origen. 
Though  once  upon  a  time  he  misbehaved. 
Poor  Satan !  doubtless,  he'll  at  length  be  saved. 
Let  priests  do  something  for  their  one  in  ten ; 
It  is  their  trade;  so  far  they're  honest  men. 
Let  them  cant  on,  since  they  have  got  the  knack, 
And  dress  their  notions,  like  themselves,  in  black; 
Fright  us,  with  terrors  of  a  world  unknown. 
From  joys  of  this,  to  keep  them  all  their  own. 
Of  earth's  fair  fruits,  indeed,  they  claim  a  fee; 
But  then  they  leave  our  untithed  virtue  free. 
Virtue's  a  pretty  thing  to  make  a  show: 
Did  ever  mortal  write  like  Rochefoucauld?' 
Thus  pleads  the  Devil's  fair  apologist. 
And,  pleading,  safely  enters  on  his  list. 


EDWARD   YOUNG  117 

NIGHT-THOUGHTS 

[Man's  Marvellous  Nature] 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august. 

How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man! 

How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such,  l^A^  ^^y^^rJui 

Who  centred  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes!     /v^X'-V^ 

From  different  natures  marvellously  mixed,  ^ 

Connection  exquisite  of  distant  worlds ! 

Distinguished  link  in  being's  endless  chain! 

Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity ! 

A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorbed! 

Though  sullied  and  dishonoured,  still  divine! 

Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute! 

An  heir  of  glory !    A  frail  child  of  dust ! 

Helpless  immortal!  insect  infinite! 

A  worm !    A  god ! — I  tremble  at  myself. 

And  in  myself  am  lost.     At  home  a  stranger. 

Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast 

And  wondering  at  her  own.    How  reason  reels ! 

O  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man, 

Triumphantly  distressed;  what  joy!  what  dread! 

Alternately  transported  and  alarmed ! 

What  can  preserve  my  life  ?  or  what  destroy  ? 

An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave; 

Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 

[Satiety  in  This  World] 

Live  ever  here,  Lorenzo?     Shocking  thought! 

So  shocking,  they  who  wish  disown  it,  too; 

Disown  from  shame  what  they  from  folly  crave. 

Live  ever  in  the  womb  nor  see  the  light  ? 

For  what  live  ever  here?     With  labouring  step 

To  tread  our  former  footsteps?  pace  the  round 

Eternal?  to  climb  life's  worn,  heavy  wheel, 

Which  draws  up  nothing  new?  to  beat,  and  beat 

The  beaten  track  ?  to  bid  each  wretched  day 

The  former  mock  ?  to  surfeit  on  the  same, 

And  yawn  our  joys  ?  or  thank  a  misery 

For  change,  though  sad?  to  see  what  we  have  seen; 


118  ENGLISH   POETS 

Hear,  till  unheard,  the  same  old  slabbered  tale? 
To  taste  the  tasted,  and  at  each  return 
Less  tasteful  ?  o'er  our  palates  to  decant 
Another  vintage  ?  strain  a  flatter  year, 
Through  loaded  vessels  and  a  laxer  tone? 
Crazy  machines,  to  grind  earth's  wasted  fruits! 

[God  Just  as  Well  as  Merciful] 

Thou  most  indulgent,  most  tremendous  Power! 
Still  more  tremendous  for  thy  wondrous  love! 
That  arms,  with  awe  more  awful,  thy  commands; 
And  foul  transgression  dips  in  sevenfold  guilt! 
How  our  hearts  tremble  at  thy  love  immense ! 
In  love  immense,  inviolably  just! 
Thou,  rather  than  thy  justice  should  be  stained. 
Didst  stain  the  cross;  and,  work  of  wonders  far 
The  greatest,  that  thy  dearest  far  might  bleed. 

Bold  thought!  shall  I  dare  speak  it,  or  repress? 
Should  man  more  execrate,  or  boast,  the  guilt 
Which  roused  such  vengeance?  which  such  love  inflamed? 
Our  guilt  (how  mountainous!)  with  outstretched  arms, 
Stern  justice  and  soft-smiling  love  embrace. 
Supporting,  in  full  majesty,  thy  throne. 
When  seemed  its  majesty  to  need  support, 
Or  that,  or  man,  inevitably  lost; 
What,  but  the  fathomless  of  thought  divine, 
Could  labour  such  expedient  from  despair,  % 

And  rescue  both?  both  rescue!  both  exalt! 
O  how  are  both  exalted  by  the  deed ! 
The  wondrous  deed !  or  shall  I  call  it  more 
A  wonder  in  Omnipotence  itself! 
A  mystery  no  less  to  gods  than  men ! 

Not  thus  our  infidels  th'  Eternal  draw, — 
A  God  all  o'er,  consummate,  absolute. 
Full-orbed,  in  his  whole  round  of  rays  complete. 
They  set  at  odds  Heaven's  jarring  attributes, 
And,  with  one  excellence,  another  wound ; 
Maim  Heaven's  perfection,  break  its  equal  beams, 
Bid  mercy  triumph  over — God  himself, 
Undeified  by  their  opprobrious  praise; 
A  God  all  mercy,  is  a  God  unjust. 


EDWAED    YOUNG  119 

[Man's  Nature  Proves  His  Immortality] 

In  man,  the  more  we  dive,  the  more  we  see 
Heaven's  signet  stamping  an  immortal  make. 
Dive  to  the  bottom  of  the  soul,  the  base 
Sustaining  all,  what  find  we?     Knowledge,  love. 
As  light  and  heat  essential  to  the  sun. 
These  to  the  soul.    And  why,  if  souls  expire? 
How  little  lovely  here !    How  little  known  ! 
Small  knowledge  we  dig  up  with  endless  toil; 
And  love  unfeigned  may  purchase  perfect  hate. 
Why  starved  on  earth  our  angel  appetites. 
While  brutal  are  indulged  their  fulsome  fill? 
Were  then  capacities  divine  conferred 
As  a  mock  diadem,  in  savage  sport, 
Rank  insult  of  our  pompous  poverty, 
Which  reaps  but  pain  from  seeming  claims  so  fair? 
In  future  age  lies  no  redress?     And  shuts 
Eternity  the  door  on  our  complaint? 
If  so,  for  what  strange  ends  were  mortals  made! 
The  worst  to  wallow,  and  the  best  to  weep ; 
The  man  who  merits  most,  must  most  complain : 
Can  we  conceive  a  disregard  in  Heaven 
What  the  worst  perpetrate  or  best  endure? 

This  cannot  be.    To  love,  and  know,  in  man 
Is  boundless  appetite,  and  boundless  power: 
And  these  demonstrate  boundless  objects,  too. 
Objects,  powers,  appetites,  Heaven  suits  in  all; 
Nor,  nature  through,  e'er  violates  this  sweet 
Eternal  concord,  on  her  tuneful  string. 
Is  man  the  sole  exception  from  her  laws  ? 
Eternity  struck  off  from  human  hope, 
(I  speak  with  truth,  but  veneration  too) 
Man  is  a  monster,  the  reproach  of  Heaven, 
A  stain,  a  dark  impenetrable  cloud 
On  Nature's  beauteous  aspect;  and  deforms 
(Amazing  blot!)  deforms  her  with  her  lord. 
If  such  is  man's  allotment,  what  is  Heaven? 
Or  own  the  soul  immortal,  or  blaspheme. 

Or  own  the  soul  immortal,  or  invert 
All  order.    Go,  mock-majesty!  go,  man! 
And  bow  to  thy  superiors  of  the  stall; 


120  ENGLISH  POETS 

Through  every  scene  of  sense  superior  far: 

They  graze  the  turf  untilled ;  they  drink  the  stream 

Unbrewed,  and  ever  full,  and  unembittered 

With  doubts,  fears,  fruitless  hopes,  regrets,  despair. 

Mankind's  peculiar!  reason's  precious  dower! 

No  foreign  clime  they  ransack  for  their  robes, 

No  brother  cite  to  the  litigious  bar. 

Their  good  is  good  entire,  unmixed,  unmarred; 

They  find  a  paradise  in  every  field, 

On  boughs  forbidden,  where  no  curses  hang : 

Their  ill  no  more  than  strikes  the  sense,  unstretched 

By  previous  dread  or  murmur  in  the  rear; 

When  the  worst  comes,  it  comes  unfeared;  one  stroke 

Begins  and  ends  their  woe:  they  die  but  once; 

Blessed  incommunicable  privilege !  for  which 

Proud  man,  who  rules  the  globe  and  reads  the  stars, 

Philosopher  or  hero,  sighs  in  vain. 

Account  for  this  prerogative  in  brutes: 

No  day,  no  glimpse  of  day,  to  solve  the  knot 

But  what  beams  on  it  from  eternity. 

O  sole  and  sweet  solution !  that  unties 

The  difficult,  and  softens  the  severe; 

The  cloud  on  Nature's  beauteous  face  dispels, 

Eestores  bright  order,  casts  the  brute  beneath. 

And  re-enthrones  us  in  supremacy 

Of  joy,  e'en  here.    Admit  immortal  life. 

And  virtue  is  knight-errantry  no  more: 

Each  virtue  brings  in  hand  a  golden  dower 

Far  richer  in  reversion:     Hope  exults,^ 

And,  though  much  bitter  in  our  cup  is  thrown. 

Predominates  and  gives  the  taste  of  Heaven. 


1 


SOAME   JENYNS  121 

ANONYMOUS    '73^-  -^-^-i^.^- 

THE   HAPPY   SAVAGE 

Oh,  happy  he  who  never  saw  the  face 

Of  man,  nor  heard  the  sound  of  human  voice! 

But  soon  as  born  was  carried  and  exposed 

In  some  vast  desert,  suckled  by  the  wolf 

Or  shaggy  bear,  more  kind  than  our  fell  race; 

Who  with  his  fellow  brutes  can  range  around 

The  echoing  forest.    His  rude  artless  mind 

Uncultivated  as  the  soil,  he  joins 

The  dreadful  harmony  of  howling  wolves,        (jyvU^vtiA^^ 

And  the  fierce  lion's  roar;  while  far  away  ,   ' 

Th'  affrighted  traveller  retires  and  trembles.  -     ■ 

Happy  the  lonely  savage !  nor  deceived,  '■  ^-*-**^ 

Nor  vexed,  nor  grieved;  in  every  darksome  cave,  ^^j^^^j^.^j^L^.t^'*^ 

Under  each  verdant  shade,  he  takes  repose. 

Sweet  are  his  slumbers:  of  all  human  arts 

Happily  ignorant,  nor  taught  by  wisdom 

Numberless  woes,  nor  polished  into  torment. 


SOAME   JENYNS 

From  AN  ESSAY  ON  YIETUE 

Were  once  these  maxims  fixed,  that  God's  our  friend, 

Virtue  our  good,  and  happiness  our  end. 

How  soon  must  reason  o'er  the  world  prevail. 

And  error,  fraud,  and  superstition  fail! 

None  would  hereafter  then  with  groundless  fear 

Describe  th'  Almighty  cruel  and  severe. 

Predestinating  some  without  pretence 

To  Heaven,  and  some  to  Hell  for  no  offence; 

Inflicting  endless  pains  for  transient  crimes. 

And  favouring  sects  or  nations,  men  or  times. 


122  ENGLISH   POETS 

To  please  him  none  would  foolishly  forbear 
Or  food,  or  rest,  or  itch  in  shirts  of  hair, 
Or  deem  it  merit  to  believe  or  teach 
What  reason  contradicts,  within  its  reach; 
None  would  fierce  zeal  for  piety  mistake, 
Or  malice  for  whatever  tenet's  sake. 
Or  think  salvation  to  one  sect  confined, 
And  Heaven  too  narrow  to  contain  mankind. 


No  servile  tenets  would  admittance  find 

Destructive  of  the  rights  of  humankind; 

Of  power  divine,  hereditary  right, 

And  non-resistance  to  a  tyrant's  might. 

For  sure  that  all  should  thus  for  one  be  cursed, 

Is  but  great  nature's  edict  just  reversed. 

No  moralists  then,  righteous  to  excess. 

Would  show  fair  Virtue  in  so  black  a  dress. 

That  they,  like  boys,  who  some  feigned  sprite  array, 

First  from  the  spectre  fly  themselves  away : 

No  preachers  in  the  terrible  delight,  _ 

But  choose  to  win  by  reason,  not  affright; 

Not,  conjurors  like,  in  fire  and  brimstone  dwell, 

And  draw  each  moving  argument  from  Hell. 

No  more  applause  would  on  ambition  wait, 
And  laying  waste  the  world  be  counted  great, 
But  one  good-natured  act  more  praises  gain, 
Than  armies  overthrown,  and  thousands  slain; 
No  more  would  brutal  rage  disturb  our  peace, 
But  envy,  hatred,  war,  and  discord  cease; 
Our  own  and  others'  good  each  hour  employ, 
And  all  things  smile  with  universal  joy; 
Virtue  with  Happiness,  her  consort,  joined, 
Would  regulate  and  bless  each  human  mind, 
And  man  be  what  his  Maker  first  designed. 


WILLIAM   SOMEEVILLE  123 

PHILIP    DODDRIDGE 
SUESUM 

Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell, 

With  all  your  feeble  light; 
Farewell,  thou  ever-changing  moon, 

Pale  empress  of  the  night. 

And  thou  refulgent  orb  of  day, 

In  brighter  flames  arrayed ; 
My  soul  that  springs  beyond  thy  sphere, 

No  more  demands  thine  aid. 

Ye  stars  are  but  the  shining  dust 

Of  my  divine  abode, 
The  pavement  of  those  heavenly  courts 

Where  I  shall  reign  with  God. 

The  Father  of  eternal  light 

Shall  there  His  beams  display; 
Nor  shall  one  moment's  darkness  mix 

With  that  unvaried  day. 

No  more  the  drops  of  piercing  grief 

Shall  swell  into  mine  eyes; 
Nor  the  meridian  sun  decline 

Amidst  those  brighter  skies. 


WILLIAM    SOMEEVILLE 

From   THE   CHASE 

Here  on  this  verdant  spot,  where  nature  kind. 
With  double  blessings  crowns  the  farmer's  hopes; 
Where  flowers  autumnal  spring,  and  the  rank  mead 
Affords  the  wandering  hares  a  rich  repast; 
Throw  off  thy  ready  pack.    See^  where  they  spread 


124  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  range  around,  and  dash  the  glittering  dew. 

If  some  staunch  hound,  with  his  authentic  voice, 

Avow  the  recent  trail,  the  justling  tribe 

Attend  his  call,  then  with  one  mutual  cry. 

The  welcome  news  confirm,  and  echoing  hills 

Repeat  the  pleasing  tale.     See  how  they  thread 

The  brakes,  and  up  yon  furrow  drive  along ! 

But  quick  they  back  recoil,  and  wisely  check 

Their  eager  haste;  then  o'er  the  fallowed  ground 

How  leisurely  they  work,  and  many  a  pause 

Th'  harmonious  concert  breaks;  till  more  assured 

With  joy  redoubled  the  low  valleys  ring. 

What  artful  labyrinths  perplex  their  way ! 

Ah!  there  she  lies;  how  close!  she  pants,  she  doubts 

If  now  she  lives;  she  trembles  as  she  sits, 

With  horror  seized.     The  withered  grass  that  clings 

Around  her  head  of  the  same  russet  hue 

Almost  deceived  my  sight,  had  not  her  eyes 

With  life  full-beaming  her  vain  wiles  betrayed. 

At  distance  draw  thy  pack,  let  all  be  hushed, 

No  clamour  loud,  no  frantic  joy  be  heard. 

Lest  the  wild  hound  run  gadding  o'er  the  plain 

Untractable,  nor  hear  thy  chiding  voice. 

Now  gently  put  her  off;  see  how  direct 

To  her  known  mew  she  flies!     Here,  huntsman,  bring 

(But  without  hurry)   all  thy  jolly  hounds. 

And  calmly  lay  them  in.     How  low  they  stoop. 

And  seem  to  plough  the  ground !  then  all  at  once 

With  greedy  nostrils  snuff  the  fuming  steam 

That  glads  their  flvittering  hearts.     As  winds  let  loose 

From  the  dark  caverns  of  the  blustering  god. 

They  burst  away,  and  sweep  the  dewy  lawn. 

Hope  gives  them  wings,  while  she's  spurred  on  by  fear; 

The  welkin  rings;  men,  dogs,  hills,  rocks,  and  woods 

In  the  full  concert  join.     Now,  my  brave  youths, 

Stripped  for  the  chase,  give  all  your  souls  to  joy! 

See  how  their  coursers,  than  the  mountain  roe 

More  fleet,  the  verdant  carpet  skim;  thick  clouds 

Snorting  they  breathe;  their  shining  hoofs  scarce  print 

The  grass  unbruised;  when  emulation  fired. 

They  strain  to  lead  the  field,  top  the  barred  gate, 

O'er  the  deep  ditch  exulting  bound,  and  brush 


HENRY   BROOKE  125 

The  thorny-twining  hedge;  the  riders  bend 

O'er  their  arched  necks;  with  steady  hands,  by  turns 

Indulge  their  speed,  or  moderate  their  rage. 

Where  are  their  sorrows,  disappointments,  wrongs, 

Vexations,  sickness,  cares?    All,  all  are  gone, 

And  with  the  panting  winds  lag  far  behind. 


HENRY   BROOKE 

From   UNIVERSAL   BEAUTY 
[The  Deity  in  Every  Atom] 

Thus  beauty,  mimicked  in  our  humbler  strains, 
Illustrious  through  the  world's  great  poem  reigns! 
The  One  grows  sundry  by  creative  power, 
Th'  eternal's  found  in  each  revolving  hour; 
Th'  immense  appears  in  every  point  of  space, 
Th'  unchangeable  in  nature's  varying  face; 
Th'  invisible  conspicuous  to  our  mind. 
And  Deity  in  every  atom  shrined. 

[Nature  Superior  to  Civilization] 

O  Nature,  whom  the  song  aspires  to  scan! 

O  Beauty,  trod  by  proud  insulting  man, 

This  boasted  tyrant  of  thy  wondrous  ball, 

This  mighty,  haughty,  little  lord  of  all; 

This  king  o'er  reason,  but  this  slave  to  sense, 

Of  wisdom  careless,  but  of  whim  immense; 

Towards  thee  incurious,  ignorant,  profane. 

But  of  his  own,  dear,  strange  productions  vain! 

Then  with  this  champion  let  the  field  be  fought, 

And  nature's  simplest  arts  'gainst  human  wisdom  brought. 

Let  elegance  and  bounty  here  unite — 

There  kings  beneficent  and  courts  polite; 

Here  nature's  wealth — there  chemist's  golden  dreams; 

Her  texture  here — and  there  the  statesman's  schemes ; 


126  ENGLISH   POETS 

Conspicuous  here  let  sacred  truth  appear — 
The  courtier's  word,  and  lordling's  honour,  there; 
Here  native  sweets  in  boon  profusion  flow — 
There  smells  that  scented  nothing  of  a  beau; 
Let  justice  here  unequal  combat  wage — 
Nor  poise  the  judgment  of  the  law-learned  sage; 
Though  all-proportioned  with  exactest  skill. 
Yet  gay  as  woman's  wish,  and  various  as  her  will. 

O  say  ye  pitied,  envied,  wretched  great. 
Who  veil  pernicion  with  the  mask  of  state! 
Whence  are  those  domes  that  reach  the  mocking  skies, 
And  vainly  emulous  of  nature  rise? 
Behold  the  swain  projected  o'er  the  vale! 
See  slumbering  peace  his  rural  eyelids  seal ; 
Earth's  flowery  lap  supports  his  vacant  head. 
Beneath  his  limbs  her  broidered  garments  spread; 
Aloft  her  elegant  pavilion  bends. 
And  living  shade  of  vegetation  lends, 
With  ever  propagated  bounty  blessed, 
And  hospitably  spread  for  every  guest: 
No  tinsel  here  adorns  a  tawdry  woof. 
Nor  lying  wash  besmears  a  varnished  roof; 
With  native  mode  the  vivid  colours  shine, 
And  Heaven's  own  loom  has  wrought  the  weft  divine, 
Where  art  veils  art,  and  beauties'  beauties  close. 
While  central  grace  diffused  throughout  the  system  flows. 


[The  Splendour  op  Insects] 

Gemmed  o'er  their  heads  the  mines  of  India  gleam. 
And  heaven's  own  wardrobe  has  arrayed  their  frame; 
Each  spangled  back  bright  sprinkling  specks  adorn,    . 
Each  plume  imbibes  the  rosy-tinctured  morn ; 
Spread  on  each  wing,  the  florid  seasons  glow, 
Shaded  and  verged  with  the  celestial  bow, 
Where  colours  blend  an  ever-varying  dye, 
And  wanton  in  their  gay  exchanges  vie. 
Not  all  the  glitter  fops  and  fair  ones  prize. 
The  pride  of  fools,  and  pity  of  the  wise; 
Not  all  the  show  and  mockery  of  state. 
The  little,  low,  fine  follies  of  the  great; 


HENRY   BROOKE  127 

Not  all  the  wealth  which  eastern  pageants  wore. 
What  still  our  idolizing  worlds  adore; 
Can  boast  the  least  inimitable  grace 
Which  decks  profusive  this  illustrious  race. 

[Moral  Lessons  from  Animal  Life] 

Ye  self-sufficient  sons  of  reasoning  pride, 
Too  wise  to  take  Omniscience  for  your  guide. 
Those  rules  from  insects,  birds,  and  brutes  discern 
Which  from  the  Maker  you  disdain  to  learn! 
The  social  friendship,  and  the  firm  ally, 
The  filial  sanctitude,  and  nuptial  tie. 
Patience  in  want,  and  faith  to  persevere, 
Th'  endearing  sentiment,  and  tender  care. 
Courage  o'er  private  interest  to  prevail, 
And  die  all  Decii  for  the  public  weal. 

[Promptings  of  Divine  Instinct] 

Dispersed  through  every  copse  or  marshy  plain, 

Where  hunts  the  woodcock  or  the  annual  crane, 

Where  else  encamped  the  feathered  legions  spread 

Or  bathe  incumbent  on  their  oozy  bed, 

The  brimming  lake  thy  smiling  presence  fills. 

And  waves  the  banners  of  a  thousand  hills. 

Thou  speed'st  the  summons  of  thy  warning  voice: 

Winged  at  thy  word,  the  distant  troops  rejoice, 

From  every  quarter  scour  the  fields  of  air. 

And  to  the  general  rendezvous  repair; 

Each  from  the  mingled  rout  disporting  turns. 

And  with  the  love  of  kindred  plumage  burns. 

Thy  potent  will  instinctive  bosoms  feel. 

And  here  arranging  semilunar,  wheel ; 

Or  marshalled  here  the  painted  rhomb  display 

Or  point  the  wedge  that  cleaves  th'  aerial  way : 

Uplifted  on  thy  wafting  breath  they  rise; 

Thou  pav'st  the  regions  of  the  pathless  skies. 

Through  boundless  tracts  support'st  the  journeyed  host 

And  point'st  the  voyage  to  the  certain  coast, — 

Thou  the  sure  compass  and  the  sea  they  sail. 

The  chart,  the  port,  the  steerage,  and  the  gale! 


128  ENGLISH   POETS 


PEOLOGUE    TO    'GUSTAVUS   YASA' 

Britons!  this  night  presents  a  state  distressed: 
Though    brave,   yet    vanquished ;    and   though   great,    op- 
pressed. 
Vice,  ravening  vulture,  on  her  vitals  preyed; 
Her  peers,  her  prelates,  fell  corruption  swayed : 
Their  rights,  for  power,  the  ambitious  weakly  sold: 
The  wealthy,  poorly,  for  superfluous  gold. 
Hence  wasting  ills,  hence  severing  factions  rose. 
And  gave  large  entrance  to  invading  foes : 
Truth,  justice,  honour,  fled  th'  infected  shore; 
For  freedom,  sacred  freedom,  was  no  more. 

Then,  greatly  rising  in  his  country's  right, 
Her  hero,  her  deliverer  sprung  to  light: 
A  race  of  hardy  northern  sons  he  led, 
Guiltless  of  courts,  untainted,  and  unread; 
Whose  inborn  spirit  spurned  th'  ignoble  fee. 
Whose  hands  scorned  bondage,  for  their  hearts  were  free. 

Ask  ye  what  law  their  conquering  cause  confessed? — 
Great  Nature's  law,  the  law  within  the  breast: 
Formed  by  no  art,  and  to  no  sect  confined. 
But  stamped  by  Heaven  upon  th'  unlettered  mind. 

Such,  such  of  old,  the  first  born  natives  were 
Who  breathed  the  virtues  of  Britannia's  air, 
Their  realm  when  mighty  Caesar  vainly  sought. 
For  mightier  freedom  against  Csesar  fought. 
And  rudely  drove  the  famed  invader  home. 
To  tyrannize  o'er  polished — venal  Rome. 

Our  bard,  exalted  in  a  freeborn  flame. 
To  every  nation  would  transfer  this  claim: 
He  to  no  state,  no  climate,  bounds  his  page. 
But  bids  the  moral  beam  through  every  age. 
Then  be  your  judgment  generous  as  his  plan; 
Ye  sons  of  freedom!  save  the  friend  of  man. 

From   CONRADE,   A  FRAGMENT 

What  do  I  love — what  is  it  that  mine  eyes 

Turn  round  in  search  of — that  my  soul  longs  after, 

But  cannot  quench  her  thirst? — 'Tis  Beauty,  Phelin! 


MATTHEW   GREEN  129 

I  see  it  wide  beneath  the  arch  of  heaven, 
When  the  stars  peep  upon  their  evening  hour, 
And  the  moon  rises  on  the  eastern  wave, 
Housed  in  a  cloud  of  gold !     I  see  it  wide 
In  earth's  autumnal  taints  of  various  landscape 
When  the  first  ray  of  morning  tips  the  trees, 
And  fires  the  distant  rock!     I  hear  its  voice 
When  thy  hand  sends  the  sound  along  the  gale, 
Swept  from  the  silver  strings  or  on  mine  ear 
Drops  the  sweet  sadness !     At  my  heart  I  feel 
Its  potent  grasp,  I  melt  beneath  the  touch, 
When  the  tale  pours  upon  my  sense  humane 
The  woes  of  other  times!    What  art  thou.  Beauty? 
Thou  art  not  colour,  fancy,  sound,  nor  form — 
These  but  the  conduits  are,  whence  the  soul  quaffs 
The  liquor  of  its  heaven.     Whate'er  thou  art. 
Nature,  or  Nature's  spirit,  thou  art  all 
I  long  for  1     Oh,  descend  upon  my  thoughts ! 
To  thine  own  music  tune,  thou  power  of  grace, 
The  cordage  of  my  heart!     Fill  every  shape 
That  rises  to  my  dream  or  wakes  to  vision ; 
And  touch  the  threads  of  every  mental  nerve, 
With  all  thy  sacred  feelings! 


MATTHEW   GREEN 

Erom   the   spleen 

To  cure  the  mind's  wrong  bias,  spleen. 
Some  recommend  the  bowling-green; 
Some,  hilly  walks;  all,  exercise; 
Fling  but  a  stone,  the  giant  dies. 
Laugh  and  be  well.     Monkeys  have  been 
Extreme  good  doctors  for  the  spleen; 
And  kitten,  if  the  humour  hit. 
Has  harlequined  away  the  fit. 

Since  mirth  is  good  in  this  behalf. 
At  some  particulars  let  us  laugh: 


130  ENGLISH   POETS 

Witlings,  brisk  fools,  cursed  with  half-sense. 

That  stimulates  their  impotence; 

Who  buzz  in  rhyme,  and,  like  blind  flies, 

Err  with  their  wings  for  want  of  eyes; 

Poor  authors  worshipping  a  calf. 

Deep  tragedies  that  make  us  laugh, 

A  strict  dissenter  saying  grace, 

A  lecturer  preaching  for  a  place, 

Eolks,  things  prophetic  to  dispense. 

Making  the  past  the  future  tense. 

The  popish  dubbing  of  a  priest. 

Fine  epitaphs  on  knaves  deceased. 

Forced  by  soft  violence  of  prayer. 

The  blithesome  goddess  soothes  my  care, 

I  feel  the  deity  inspire. 

And  thus  she  models  my  desire. 

Two  hundred  pounds 'half -yearly  paid. 

Annuity  securely  made, 

A  farm  some  twenty  miles  from  town, 

Small,  tight,  salubrious,  and  my  own ; 

Two  maids,  that  never  saw  the  town, 

A  serving-man  not  quite  a  clown, 

A  boy  to  help  to  tread  the  mow. 

And  drive,  while  t'other  holds  the  plough; 

A  chief,  of  temper  formed  to  please. 

Fit  to  converse,  and  keep  the  keys; 

And  better  to  preserve  the  peace, 

Commissioned  by  the  name  of  niece; 

With  understandings  of  a  size 

To  think  their  master  very  wise. 


WILLIAM    SHENSTONE    ^"^  ^  7 

From    THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS       ■i^'^'^^ 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow,       H"^  L^ 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield: 
Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trow. 
As  is  the  harebell  that  adorns  the  field; 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE  131 

And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays;  with  anxious  fear  entwined, 
With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  filled ; 
And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  joined, 
A.nd  fury  uncontrolled,  and  chastisement  unkind. 

A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown; 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own ; 
'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair! 
'Twas  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare-; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils  ranged  around, 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing  rare; 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 
A.nd   think,   no   doubt,    she   been   the   greatest   wight   on 
ground. 

Lo,  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command ! 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair; 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in  hand. 
Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are; 
To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair: 
The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George's  high  achievements  does  declare; 
On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been 
Kens  the  forth-coming  rod,  unpleasing  sight,  I  ween! 

Ah,  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star!  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write! 
As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla's  silver  stream, 
Oft.  as  he  told  o"P  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sighed  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 
For  brandishing  the  rod.  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling's  late  delight! 
And  down  they  drop ;  appears  his  dainty  skin. 
Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

O  ruthf ul  scene !  when  from  a  nook  obscure. 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see: 
All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee; 
She  meditates  a  prayer  to  set  him  free: 


132  ENGLISH   POETS 

Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny, 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree) 
To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could  die. 

The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay, 
Attend,  and  conn  their  tasks  with  mickle  care: 
By  turns,  astonied,  every  twig  survey, 
And,  from  their  fellow's  hateful  wounds,  beware; 
Knowing,  I  wist,  how  each  the  same  may  share; 
Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance  meet, 
And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  repairs; 
Whence  oft  with  sugared  cates  she  doth  'em  greet, 
And  ginger-bread  y-rare;  now,  certes,  doubly  sweet  I 

Yet  nursed  with  skill,  what  dazzling  fruits  appear! 
Even  now  sagacious  foresight  points  to  show 
A  little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here. 
And  there  a  chancellor  in  embryo. 
Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  may  e'er  be  so. 
As  Milton,  Shakespeare,  names  that  ne'er  shall  die! 
Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground  so  low, 
Nor  weeting  how  the  muse  should  soar  on  high, 
Wisheth,  poor  starveling  elf!  his  paper  kite  may  fly. 


WEITTEN    AT    AN    INN    AT    HENLEY       ■    ,^ 

To  thee,  fair  freedom!  I  retire 

From  flattery,  cards,  and  dice,  and  din; 

Nor  art  thou  found  in  mansions  higher 
Than  the  low  cot,  or  humble  inn. 

'Tis  here  with  boundless  power  I  reign; 

And  every  health  which  I  begin. 
Converts  dull  port  to  bright  champagne; 

Such  freedom  crowns  it,  at  an  inn. 

I  fly  from  pomp,  I  fly  from  plate! 

I  fly  from  falsehood's  specious  grin! 
Freedom  I  love,  and  form  I  hate. 

And  choose  my  lodgings  at  an  inn. 


JONATHAN   SWIFT  133 

Here,  waiter!  take  my  sordid  ore, 

Which  lacqueys  else  might  hope  to  win; 

It  buys,  what  courts  have  not  in  store; 
It  buys  me  freedom,  at  an  inn. 

Whoe'er  has  travelled  life's  dull  round, 

Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been. 
May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 

The  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn. 


JONATHAN   SWIFT 

From   THE   BEASTS'   CONFESSION 

When  beasts  could  speak,  (the  learned  say 

They  still  can  do  so  every  day,; 

It  seems  they  had  religion  then. 

As  much  as  now  we  find  in  men. 

It  happened,  when  a  plague  broke  out, 

(Which  therefore  made  them  more  devout,) 

The  king  of  brutes  (to  make  it  plain. 

Of  quadrupeds  I  only  mean) 

By  proclamation  gave  command 

That  every  subject  in  the  land 

Should  to  the  priest  confess  their  sins; 

And  thus  the  pious  Wolf  begins : — 

'Good  father,  I  must  own  with  shame. 

That  often  I  have  been  to  blame: 

I  must  confess,  on  Friday  last. 

Wretch  that  I  was!     I  broke  my  fast: 

But  I  defy  the  basest  tongue 

To  prove  I  did  my  neighbour  wrong; 

Or  ever  went  to  seek  my  food. 

By  rapine,  theft,  or  thirst  of  blood.' 

The  Ass  approaching  next,  confessed 
That  in  his  heart  he  loved  a  jest: 
A  wag  he  was,  he  needs  must  own, 
And  could  not  let  a  dunce  alone: 


134  ENGLISH   POETS 

Sometimes  his  friend  he  would  not  spare, 
And  might  perhaps  be  too  severe : 
But  yet  the  worst  that  could  be  said, 
He  was  a  wit  both  born  and  bred; 
And,  if  it  be  a  sin  and  shame. 
Nature  alone  must  bear  the  blame: 
One  fault  he  has,  is  sorry  for't, 
His  ears  are  half  a  foot  too  short; 
Which  could  he  to  the  standard  bring, 
He'd  show  his  face  before  the  king : 
Then  for  his  voice,  there's  none  disputes 
That  he's  the  nightingale  of  brutes. 

The  Swine  with  contrite  heart  allowed 
His  shape  and  beauty  made  him  proud : 
In  diet  was  perhaps  too  nice. 
But  gluttony  was  ne'er  his  vice: 
In  every  turn  of  life  content. 
And  meekly  took  what  fortune  sent : 
Inquire  through  all  the  parish  round, 
A  better  neighbour  ne'er  was  found; 
His  vigilance  might  some  displease; 
'Tis  true,  he  hated  sloth  like  pease. 

The  mimic  Ape  began  his  chatter. 
How  evil  tongues  his  life  bespatter; 
Much  of  the  censuring  world  complained. 
Who  said,  his  gravity  was  feigned : 
Indeed,  the  strictness  of  his  morals 
Engaged  him  in  a  hundred  quarrels : 
He  saw,  and  he  was  grieved  to  see  't. 
His  zeal  was  sometimes  indiscreet: 
He  found  his  virtues  too  severe 
For  our  corrupted  times  to  bear; 
Yet  such  a  lewd  licentious  age 
Might  well  excuse  a  stoic's  rage. 

The  Goat  advanced  with  decent  pace. 
And  first  excused  his  youthful  face; 
Forgiveness  begged  that  he  appeared 
CTwas  Nature's  fault)  without  a  beard. 
'Tis  true,  he  was  not  much  inclined 
To  fondness  for  the  female  kind : 
Not,  as  his  enemies  object. 
From  chance,  or  natural  defect; 


JONATHAN   SWIFT  135 

Not  by  his  frigid  constitution; 

But  through  a  pious  resolution: 

For  he  had  made  a  holy  vow 

Of  chastity,  as  monks  do  now: 

Which  he  resolved  to  keep  for  ever  hence 

And  strictly  too,  as  doth  his  reverence. 

Apply  the  tale,  and  you  shall  find, 
How  just  it  suits  with  human  kind. 
Some  faults  we  own ;  but  can  you  guess  ? 
— Why,  virtues  carried  to  excess. 
Wherewith  our  vanity  endows  us, 
Though  neither  foe  nor  friend  allows  us. 
The  Lawyer  swears  (you  may  rely  on't) 
He  never  squeezed  a  needy  client; 
And  this  he  makes  his  constant  rule, 
For  which  his  brethren  call  him  fool; 
His  conscience  always  was  so  nice, 
He  freely  gave  the  poor  advice; 
By  which  he  lost,  he  may  affirm, 
A  hundred  fees  last  Easter  term; 
While  others  of  the  learned  robe, 
Would  break  the  patience  of  a  Job. 
No  pleader  at  the  bar  could  match 
His  diligence  and  quick  dispatch ; 
Ne'er  kept  a  cause,  he  well  may  boast. 
Above  a  term  or  two  at  most. 

The  cringing  Knave,  who  seeks  a  place 
Without  success,  thus  tells  his  case: 
Why  should  he  longer  mince  the  matter? 
He  failed,  because  he  could  not  flatter; 
He  had  not  learned  to  turn  his  coat. 
Nor  for  a  party  give  his  vote: 
His  crime  he  quickly  understood; 
Too  zealous  for  the  nation's  good: 
He  found  the  ministers  resent  it. 
Yet  could  not  for  his  heart  repent  it. 

The  Chaplain  vows,  he  cannot  fawn. 
Though  it  would  raise  him  to  the  lawn: 
He  passed  his  hours  amontr  his  books; 
You  find  it  in  his  meagre  looks: 
He  might,  if  he  were  worldly  wise. 
Preferment  get,  and  spare  his  eyes; 


136  ENGLISH   POETS 

But  owns  he  had  a  stubborn  spirit, 
That  made  him  trust  alone  to  merit; 
Would  rise  by  merit  to  promotion; 
Alas !  a  mere  chimeric  notion. 

The  Doctor,  if  you  will  believe  him, 
Confessed  a  sin;  (and  God  forgive  himl) 
Called  up  at  midnight,  ran  to  save 
A  blind  old  beggar  from  the  grave: 
But  see  how  Satan  spreads  his  snares; 
He  qufte  forgot  to  say  his  prayers. 
He  cannot  help  it,  for  his  heart. 
Sometimes  to  act  the  parson's  part: 
Quotes  from  the  Bible  many  a  sentence, 
That  moves  his  patients  to  repentance; 
And,  when  his  medicines  do  no  good. 
Supports  their  minds  with  heavenly  food; 
At  which,  however  well  intended. 
He  hears  the  clergy  are  offended; 
And  grown  so  bold  behind  his  back, 
To  call  him  hypocrite  and  quack. 


I  own  the  moral  not  exact. 
Besides,  the  tale  is  false,  in  fact; 
And  so  absurd,  that  could  I  raise  up. 
From  fields  Elysian,  fabling  ^sop, 
I  would  accuse  him  to  his  face, 
For  libelling  the  four-foot  race. 
Creatures  of  every  kind  but  ours 
Well  comprehend  their  natural  powers. 
While  we,  whom  reason  ought  to  sway. 
Mistake  our  talents  every  day. 
The  Ass  was  never  known  so  stupid 
To  act  the  part  of  Tray  or  Cupid; 
Nor  leaps  upon  his  master's  lap, 
There  to  be  stroked,  and  fed  with  pap. 
As  JEsop  would  the  world  persuade; 
He  better  understands  his  trade: 
Nor  comes  whene'er  his  lady  whistles, 
But  carries  loads,  and  feeds  on  thistles. 
Our  author's  meaning,  I  presume,  is 
A  creature  hipes  et  implumis; 


JONATHAN    SWIFT  137 

Wherein  the  moralist  designed 
A  compliment  on  human  kind; 
For  here  he  owns,  that  now  and  then 
Beasts  may  degenerate  into  men. 


From  VERSES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  SWIFT 

Vain  human  kind!  fantastic  race! 

Thy  various  follies  who  can  trace? 

Self-love,   ambition,  envy,  pride, 

Their  empire  in  our  hearts  divide. 

Give  others  riches,  power,  and  station, 

'Tis  all  on  me  a  usurpation. 

I  have  no  title  to  aspire; 

Yet,  when  you  sink,  I  seem  the  higher. 

In  Pope  I  cannot  read  a  line 

But  with  a  sigh  I  wish  it  mine; 

When  he  can  in  one  couplet  fix 

More  sense  than  I  can  do  in  six, 

It  gives  me  such  a  jealous  fit 

I  cry,  *Pox  take  him  and  his  wit!' 

I  grieve  to  be  outdone  by  Gay 

In  my  own  humorous  biting  way. 

Arbuthnot  is  no  more  my  friend, 

Who  dares  to  irony  pretend, 

Which  I  was  born  to  introduce. 

Refined  it  first,  and  showed  its  use. 

St.  John,  as  well  as  Pultney,  knows, 

That  I  had  some  repute  for  prose; 

And,  till  they  drove  me  out  of  date, 

Could  maul  a  minister  of  state. 

If  they  have  mortified  my  pride. 

And  made  me  throw  my  pen  aside: 

If  with  such  talents  Heaven  has  blessed  'em. 

Have  I  not  reason  to  detest  'em? 


Suppose  me  dead ;  and  then  suppose 
A  club  assembled  at  the  Rose; 
Where,  from  discourse  of  this  and  that, 
I  grow  the  subject  of  their  chat. 


138  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  while  they  toss  my  name  about, 
With  favour  some,  and  some  without, 
One,  quite  indifferent  in  the  cause, 
My  character  impartial  draws: 

'The  Dean,  if  we  believe  report. 
Was  never  ill-received  at  court. 
As  for  his  works  in  verse  and  prose, 
I  own  myself  no  judge  of  those; 
Nor  can  I  tell  what  critics  thought  'em. 
But  this  I  know,  all  people  bought  'em. 
As  with  a  moral  view  designed 
To  cure  the  vices  of  mankind. 
His  vein,  ironically  grave. 
Exposed  the  fool,  and  lashed  the  knave. 
To  steal  a  hint  was  never  known, 
But  what  he  writ  was  all  his  own. 

'He  never  thought  an  honour  done  him. 
Because  a  duke  was  proud  to  own  him; 
Would  rather  slip  aside  and  choose 
To  talk  with  wits  in  dirty  shoes; 
Despised  the  fools  with  stars  and  garters, 
So  often  seen  caressing  Chartres. 
He  never  courted  men  in  station. 
Nor  persons  held  in  admiration; 
Of  no  man's  greatness  was  afraid, 
Because  he  sought  for  no  man's  aid. 
Though  trusted  long  in  great  affairs. 
He  gave  himself  no  haughty  airs. 
Without  regarding  private  ends. 
Spent  all  his  credit  for  his  friends; 
And  only  chose  the  wise  and  good; 
No  flatterers;  no  allies  in  blood: 
But  succoured  virtue  in  distress. 
And  seldom  failed  of  good  success; 
As  numbers  in  their  hearts  must  own. 
Who,  but  for  him,  had  been  unknown. 


^Perhaps  I  may  allow  the  Dean 

Had  too  much  satire  in  his  vein ; 

And  seemed  determined  not  to  starve  it. 

Because  no  age  could  more  deserve  it. 


CHARLES   WESLEY  139 

Yet  malice  never  was  his  aim ; 

He  lashed  the  vice,  but  spared  the  name; 

No  individual  could  resent, 

Where  thousands  equally  were  meant; 

His  satire  points  at  no  defect, 

But  what  all  mortals  may  correct; 

For  he  abhorred  that  senseless  tribe 

Who  call  it  humour  when  they  gibe: 

He  spared  a  hump,  or  crooked  nose. 

Whose  owners  set  not  up  for  beaux. 

True  genuine  dulness  moved  his  pity. 

Unless  it  offered  to  be  witty. 

Those  who  their  ignorance  confessed, 

He  never  offended  with  a  jest; 

But  laughed  to  hear  an  idiot  quote 

A  verse  from  Horace  learned  by  rote. 

'_He  knew  a  hundred  pleasing  stories, 
With  all  the  turns  of  Whigs  and  Tories: 
Was  cheerful  to  his  dying  day; 
And  friends  would  let  him  have  his  way. 

'He  gave  the  little  wealth  he  had 
To  build  a  house  for  fools  and  mad; 
And  showed  by  one  satiric  touch, 
No  nation  wanted  it  so  much.' 


CHARLES   WESLEY 
FOR   CHRISTMAS-DAY 

Hark!  how  all  the  welkin  rings 
'Glory  to  the  King  of  kings ! 
Peace  on  earth,  and  mercy  mild, 
God  and  sinners  reconciled!' 

Joyful,  all  ye  nations,  rise. 
Join  the  triumph  of  the  skies; 
Universal  nature  say, 
'Christ  the  Lord  is  bom  to-day!' 


140  ENGLISH  POETS 

Christ,  by  highest  Heaven  adored; 
Christ,  the  everlasting  Lord; 
Late  in  time  behold  Him  come, 
Offspring  of  a  virgin's  womb! 

Veiled  in  flesh  the  Godhead  see; 
Hail,  th'  incarnate  Deity, 
Pleased  as  man  with  men  to  appear, 
Jesus,  our  Immanuel  here! 

Hail!  the  heavenly  Prince  of  Peace! 
Hail!  the  Sun  of  Righteousness! 
Light  and  life  to  all  He  brings. 
Risen  with  healing  in  His  wings. 

Mild  He  lays  His  glory  by. 
Bom  that  man  no  more  may  die, 
Born  to  raise  the  sons  of  earth. 
Born  to  give  them  second  birth. 

Come,  Desire  of  Nations,  come. 
Fix  in  us  Thy  humble  home! 
Rise,  the  Woman's  conquering  Seed, 
Bruise  in  us  the  Serpent's  head! 

Now  display  Thy  saving  power, 
Ruined  nature  now  restore. 
Now  in  mystic  union  join 
Thine  to  ours,  and  ours  to  Thine! 

Adam's  likeness,  Lord,  efface; 
Stamp  Thy  image  in  its  place; 
Second  Adam  from  above, 
Reinstate  us  in  Thy  love! 

Let  us  Thee,  though  lost,  regain, 
Thee,  the  Life,  the  Inner  Man: 
O!  to  all  Thyself  impart. 
Formed  in  each  believing  heart! 


CHARLES    WESLEY  141 


FOR   EASTER-DAY 

'Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day,' 
Sons  of  men  and  angels  say : 
Raise  your  joys  and  triumphs  high. 
Sing,  ye  heavens,  and  earth  reply. 

Love's  redeeming  work  is  done, 
Fought  the  fight,  the  battle  won: 
Lo!  our  Sun's  eclipse  is  o'er; 
Lo!  He  sets  in  blood  no  more. 

Vain  the  stone,  the  watch,  the  seal; 
Christ  hath  burst  the  gates  of  hell! 
Death  in  vain  forbids  His  rise; 
Christ  hath  opened  Paradise! 

Lives  again  our  glorious  King: 
Where,  O  Death,  is  now  thy  sting? 
Dying  once,  He  all  doth  save: 
Where  thy  victory,  O  Grave? 

Soar  we  now  where  Christ  has  led, 
Following  our  exalted  Head; 
Made  like  Him,  like  Him  we  rise; 
Ours  the  Cross,  the  grave,  the  skies. 

What  though  once  we  perished  all. 
Partners  in  our  parents'  fall? 
Second  life  we  all  receive, 
In  our  Heavenly  Adam  live. 

Risen  with  Him,  we  upward  move; 
Still  we  seek  the  things  above; 
Still  pursue,  and  kiss  the  Son 
Seated  on  His  Father's  Throne. 

Scarce  on  earth  a  thought  bestow, 
Dead  to  all  we  leave  below; 
Heaven  our  aim,  and  loved  abode, 
Hid  our  life  with  Christ  in  God: 


142  ENGLISH  POETS 

Hid,  till  Christ  our  Life  appear 
Glorious  in  His  members  here; 
Joined  to  Him,  we  then  shall  shine. 
All  immortal,  all  divine. 

Hail  the  Lord  of  Earth  and  Heaven! 
Praise  to  Thee  by  both  be  given! 
Thee  we  greet  triumphant  now! 
Hail,  the  Resurrection  Thou ! 

King  of  glory.  Soul  of  bliss! 
Everlasting  life  is  this, 
Thee  to  know.  Thy  power  to  prove, 
Thus  to  sing,  and  thus  to  love! 


I^.k"^-^  ivo."  ^  IN"   TEMPTATION 

,  Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul, 

y*^-  Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly. 

While  the  nearer  waters  roll. 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high! 
Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour,  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past, 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide; 
O  receive  my  soul  at  last! 


Other  refuge  have  I  none; 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee; 
Leave,  ah !  leave  me  not  alone. 

Still  support  and  comfort  me! 
All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stayed, 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring: 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing! 

Wilt  Thou  not  regard  my  call? 

Wilt  Thou  not  accept  my  prayer? 
Lo !  I  sink,  I  faint,  I  fall ! 

Lo!  on  Thee  I  cast  my  care! 


CHAKLES    WESLEY  ,    143 

Reach  me  out  Thy  gracious  hand! 

While  I  of  Thy  strength  receive, 
Hoping  against  hope  I  stand, 

Dying,  and  behold  I  live! 

Thou,  O  Christ,  art  all  I  want; 

More  than  all  in  Thee  I  find : 
Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 

Ileal   the  sick,   and   lead   the   blind ! 
Just  and  holy  is  Thy  Name; 

I  am  all  unrighteousness; 
False  and  full  of  sin  I  am, 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  Thee  is  found, 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin ; 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound; 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within! 
Thou  of  Life  the  Fountain  art. 
Freely  let  me  take  of  Thee; 
Spring  Thou  up  within  my  heart! 

Rise  to  all  eternity! 


WRESTLING   JACOB 

Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see; 

My  company  before  is  gone. 

And  I  am  left  alone  with  Thee; 

With  Thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay. 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 

I  need  not  tell  Thee  who  I  am. 

My  misery  or  sin  declare; 
Thyself  hast  called  me  by  my  name; 

Look  on  Thy  hands,  and  read  it  there  I 
But  who,  I  ask  Thee,  who  art  Thou? 
Tell  me  Thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  Thou  strugglest  to  get  free, 
I  never  will  unloose  my  hold ; 

Art  Thou  the  Man  that  died  for  me? 
The  secret  of  Thy  love  unfold. 


144    .  ENGLISH   POETS 

Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go. 
Till  I  Thy  name,  Thy  nature  know. 

Wilt  Thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 
Thy  new,  unutterable  name? 

Tell  me,  I  still  beseech   Thee,  tell: 
To  know   it  now,   resolved   I  am: 

Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go, 

Till  I  Thy  name.  Thy  nature  know. 

'Tis  all  in  vain  to  hold  Thy  tongue, 
Or  touch  the  hollow  of  my  thigh; 

Though  every  sinew  be  unstrung. 

Out  of  my  arms  Thou  shalt  not  fly; 

Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go. 

Till  I  Thy  name,  Thy  nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain. 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long? 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain; 

When  I  am  weak,  then  I  am  strong: 

And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 

I  shall  with  the  God-Man  prevail. 

My  strength  is  gone;  my  nature  dies; 

I  sink  beneath  Thy  weighty  hand, 
Faint  to  revive,  and  fall  to  rise; 

I  fall,  and  yet  by  faith  I  stand: 
I  stand,  and  will  not  let  Thee  go, 
Till  I  Thy  name.  Thy  nature  know. 

Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak. 
But  confident   in  self -despair; 

Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak. 
Be  conquered  by  my  instant  prayer! 

Speak,  or  Thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 

And  tell  me,  if  Thy  name  is  Love? 

'Tis  Love!  'tis  Love!     Thou  diedst  for  me! 

I  hear  Thy  whisper  in  my  heart! 
The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee; 

Pure  universal  Love  Thou  art ! 


CHARLES   WESLEY  145 

To  me,  to  all,  Thy  bowels  move; 
Thy  nature,  and  Thy  name,  is  Love! 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God;  the  grace 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive; 
Through  faith  I  see  Thee  face  to  face, 

I  see  Thee  face  to  face,  and  live: 
In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove; 
Thy  nature,  and  Thy  name,  is  Love. 

I  know  Thee,  Saviour,  who  Thou  art; 

Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  friend! 
Nor  wilt  Thou  with  the  night  depart, 

But  stay,  and  love  me  to  the  end! 
Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove, 
Thy  nature,  and  Thy  name,  is  Love! 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  on  me 

Hath  rose,  with  healing  in  His  wings; 
Withered  my  nature's  strength,   from   Thee 
*    My  soul  its  life  and  succour  brings; 
My  help  is  all  laid  up  above; 
Thy  nature,  and  Thy  name,  is  Love. 

Contented  now  upon  my  thigh 

I  halt,  till  life's  short  journey  end; 

All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 

On  Thee  alone  for  strength  depend; 

Nor  have  I  power  from   Thee  to  move; 

Thy  nature,  and  Thy  name,  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey. 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin,  with  ease  o'ercome; 

I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way, 
And  as  a  bounding  hart  fly  home! 

Through  all  eternity  to  prove. 

Thy  nature,  and  Thy  name,  is  Love! 


146  ENGLISH   POETS 

ROBERT    BLAIR 

From    THE    GRAVE        ^^ 


re.   ftni 


See  yonder  hallowed  fane; — the  pious  work 

Of  names  once  famed,  now  dubious  or  forgot, 

And  buried  midst  the  wreck  of  things  which  were; 

There  lie  interred  the  more  illustrious  dead. 

The  wind  is  up:  hark!  how  it  howls!     Methinks 

Till  now  I  never  heard  a  sound  so  dreary : 

Doors  creak,  and  windows  clap,  and  night's  foul  bird. 

Rooked  in  the  spire,  screams  loud:  the  gloomy  aisles, 

Black-plastered,  and  hung  round  with  shreds  of  'scutcheons 

And  tattered  coats  of  arms,  send  back  the  sound 

Laden  with  heavier  airs,   from  the  low  vaults. 

The  mansions  of  the  dead.— Roused  from  their  slumbers, 

In  grim  array  the  grisly  spectres  rise. 

Grin  horrible,  and,  obstinately  sullen, 

Pass  and  repass,  hushed  as  the  foot  of  night. 

Again  the  screech-owl  shrieks :  ungracious  sound ! 

I'll  hear  no  more;  it  makes  one's  blood  run  chill. 

Oft  in  the  lone  churchyard  at  night  I've  seen, 

By  glimpse  of  moonshine  chequering  through  the  trees, 

The  school-boy,  with  his  satchel  in  his  hand. 

Whistling  aloud  to  bear  his  courage  up. 

And  lightly  tripping  o'er  the  long  flat  stones, 

(With  nettles  skirted,  and  with  moss  o'ergrown,) 

That  tell  in  homely  phrase  who  lie  below. 

Sudden  he  starts,  and  hears,  or  thinks  he  hears. 

The  sound  of  something  purring  at  his  heels; 

Full  fast  he  flies,  and  dares  not  look  behind  him, 

Till  out  of  breath  he  overtakes  his  fellows; 

Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 

Of  horrid  apparition,  tall  and  ghastly. 

That  walks  at  dead  of  night,  or  takes  his  stand 

O'er  some  new-opened  grave;  and  (strange  to  tell!) 

Evanishes   at  crowing  of  the  cock. 


ROBERT    BLAIR  147 

The  new-made  widow,  too,  I've  sometimes  spied, 
Sad  sight!  slow  moving  o'er  the  prostrate  dead: 
Listless,  she  crawls  along  in  doleful  black. 
Whilst  bursts  of  sorrow  gush  from  either  eye. 
East  falling  down  her  now  untasted  cheek: 
Prone  on  the  lowly  grave  of  the  dear  man 
She  drops;   whilst   busy,   meddling  memory. 
In  barbarous  succession  musters  up 
The  past  endearments  of  their  softer  hours. 
Tenacious  of  its  theme.     Still,  still  she  thinks       i  o  A    J.„^-^vf 
She  sees  him,  and  indulging  the  fond  thought,        ,v /v.'y^.  ,•'-'' 
Clings  yet  more  closely  to  the  senseless  turf, 
Nor  heeds  the  passenger  who  looks  that  way. 


When  the  dread  trumpet  sounds,  the  slumbering  dust, 

Not  unattentive  to  the  call,  shall  wake. 

And   every  joint  possess   its   proper  place 

With  a  new  elegance  of  form  unknown 

To  its  first  state.     Nor  shall  the  conscious  soul 

Mistake  its  partner,  but,  amidst  the  crowd 

Singling   its   other   half,    into    its    arms 

Shall  rush   with   all   the   impatience  of   a   man 

That's  new  come  home,  who  having  long  been  absent 

With  haste  runs  over  every  different  room 

In  pain  to  see  the  whole.     Thrice  happy  meeting! 

Nor  time  nor  death  shall  part  them  ever  more. 

'Tis  but  a  night,  a  long  and  moonless  night. 

We  make  the  grave  our  bed,  and  then  are  gone. 

Thus  at  the  shut  of  even  the  weary  bird 
Leaves  the  wide  air  and,  in  some  lonely  brake. 
Cowers  down  and  dozes  till  the  dawn  of  day. 
Then  claps  his  well-fledged  wings  and  bears  awayo 


148  ENGLISH   POETS 

WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD 

From    ON    EIDICULE 

Our  mirthful  age,  to  all  extremes  a  prey, 

Even  courts  the  lash,  and  laughs  her  pains  away. 

Declining  worth  imperial  wit  supplies. 

And  Momus  triumphs,  while  Astrsea  flies. 

No  truth  so  sacred,  banter  cannot  hit. 

No  fool  so  stupid  but  he  aims  at  wit. 

Even  those  whose  breasts  ne'er  planned  one  virtuous  deed. 

Nor  raised  a  thought  beyond  the  earth  they  tread: 

Even  those  can  censure,  those  can  dare  deride 

A  Bacon's  avarice,  or  a  Tully's  pride; 

And  sneer  at  human  checks  by  Nature  given. 

To  curb  perfection  e'er  it  rival  Heaven : 

Nay,  chiefly  such  in  these  low  arts  prevail, 

Whose  want  of  talents  leaves  them  time  to  raid. 

Born  for  no  end,  they  worse  than  useless  grow, 

(As  waters  poison,   if  they  cease  to  flow;) 

And  pests  become,  whom  kinder  fate  designed 

But  harmless  expletives  of  human  kind. 

See  with  what  zeal  th'  insidious  task  they  ply! 

Where  shall  the  prudent,  where  the  virtuous  fly? 

Lurk  as  ye  can,  if  they  direct  the  ray, 

The  veriest  atoms  in  the  sunbeams  play. 

No  venial  slip  their  quick  attention  'scapes; 

They  trace  each  Proteus  through  his  hundred  shapes; 

To  Mirth's  tribunal  drag  the  caitiff  train. 

Where  Mercy  sleeps,  and  Nature  pleads  in  vain. 

Here  then  we  fix,  and  lash  without  control 

These  mental  pests,  and  hydras  of  the  soul; 

Acquired  ill-nature,  ever  prompt  debate, 

A  zeal  for  slander,  and  deliberate  hate : 

These  court  contempt,  proclaim  the  public  foe, 

And  each,  Ulysses  like,  should  aim  the  blow. 

Yet  sure,  even  here,  our  motives  should  be  known: 
Rail  we  to  check  his  spleen,  or  ease  our  own? 


WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD  149 

Does  injured  virtue  every  shaft  supply, 
Arm  the  keen  tongue,  and  flush  th'  erected  eye? 
Or  do  we  from  ourselves  ourselves  disguise? 
And  act,  perhaps,  the  villain  we  chastise? 
Hope  we  to  mend  him  ?  hopes,  alas,  how  vain ! 
He  feels  the  lash,  not  listens  to  the  rein. 

'Tis  dangerous  too,   in  these  licentious  times, 
Howe'er  severe  the  smile,  to  sport  with  crimes. 
Vices  when  ridiculed,  experience  says. 
First  lose  that  horror  which  they  ought  to  raise. 
Grow  by  degrees  approved,  and  almost  aim  at  praise. 


[The]  fear  of  man,  in  his  most  mirthful  mood. 
May  make  us  hypocrites,  but  seldom  good. 


Besides,  in  men  have  varying  passions  made 
Such  nice  confusions,  blending  light  with  shade, 
That  eager  zeal  to  laugh  the  vice  away 
May  hurt  some  virtue's   intermingling  ray. 


Then  let  good-nature  every  charm  exert. 
And  while  it  mends  it,  win  th'  unfolding  heart. 
Let  moral  mirth  a  face  of  triumph  wear. 
Yet  smile  unconscious  of  th'  extorted  tear. 
See  with  what  grace  instructive  satire  flows. 
Politely  keen,  in  Clio's  numbered  prose ! 
That  great  example  should  our  zeal  excite. 
And  censors  learn  from  Addison  to  write. 
So,  in  our  age,  too  prone  to  sport  with  pain, 
Mi^ht  soft  humanity  resume  her  reign; 
Pride  without  rancour  feel  th'  objected  fault. 
And  folly  blush,  as  willing  to  be  taught; 
Critics  grow  mild,  life's  witty  warfare  cease. 
And  true  good-nature  breathe  the  balm  of  peace. 


150  ENGLISH   POETS 


THE   ENTHUSIAST 

Once — I  remember  well  the  day, 
'Twas  ere  the  blooming  sweets  of  May 

Had  lost  their  freshest  hues. 
When  every  flower  on  every  hill. 
In  every  vale,  had  drank  its  fill 

Of  sunshine   and  of  dews. 

In  short,  'twas  that  sweet  season's  prime 
When  Spring  gives  up  the  reins  of  time 
To    Summer's    glowing    hand. 
And   doubting  mortals  hardly  know 
By  whose  command  the  breezes  blow 
Which  fan  the  smiling  land. 

'Twas  then,  beside  a  greenwood  shade 
Which  clothed   a  lawn's  aspiring  head, 

I  urged  my  devious  way, 
With  loitering  steps  regardless  where, 
So  soft,  so  genial  was  the  air. 

So  wondrous  bright  the  day. 

And  now  my  eyes  with  transport  rove 
O'er  all  the  blue  expanse  above, 

Unbroken   by   a   cloud ! 
And  now  beneath  delighted  pass. 
Where  winding  through  the  deep-green  grass 

A  full-brimmed  river  flowed. 

I  stop,  I  gaze;  in  accents  rude. 
To  thee,  serenest  Solitude, 

Bursts  forth  th'  unbidden  lay; 
'Begone  vile  world !  the  learned,  the  wise^ 
The  great,  the  busy,  I  despise. 

And   pity   even   the  gay. 

'These,  these  are  joys  alone,  I  cry, 
'Tis  here,  divine  Philosophy, 

Thou  deign'st  to  fix  thy  throne ! 
Here  contemplation  points  the  road 
Through  nature's  charms  to  nature's  God! 

These,  these  are  joys  alone ! 


WILLIAM   WHITEHEAD  151 

'Adieu,  ye  vain  low-thoughted  cares, 
Ye  human  hopes,   and  human  fears, 

Ye  pleasures  and  ye  pains !' 
While  thus  I  spake,  o'er  all  my  soul 
A  philosophic  calmness  stole, 

A  stoic  stillness  reigns. 

The  tyrant  passions  all  subside. 
Fear,  anger,  pity,  shame,  and  pride. 

No  more  my  bosom  move; 
Yet  still  I  felt,  or  seemed  to  feel 
A  kind  of  visionary  zeal 

Of  universal  love. 

When  lo!  a  voice,  a  voice  I  hear! 
'Twas  Reason  whispered  in  my  ear 

These  monitory  strains: 
'What  mean'st  thou,  man?  wouldst  thou  unbind 
The  ties  which  constitute  thy  kind. 

The  pleasures  and  the  pains  ? 

'The  same  Almighty  Power  unseen, 
Who  spreads  the  gay  or  solemn  scene 

To  contemplation's  eye, 
Fixed  every  movement  of  the  soul, 
Taught  every  wish  its  destined  goal. 

And  quickened  every  joy. 

'He  bids  the  tyrant  passions  rage. 
He  bids  them  war  eternal  wage. 

And  combat  each  his  foe : 
Till  from  dissensions  concords  rise. 
And  beauties  from  deformities, 

And  happiness  from  woe. 

'Art  thou  not  man,  and  dar'st  thou  find 
A  bliss  which  leans  not  to  mankind? 

Presumptuous  thought  and  vain 
Each  bliss  unshared  is  unenjoyed. 
Each  power  is  weak  unless  employed 

Some  social  good  to  gain. 


152  ENGLISH   POETS 

'Shall  light  and  shade,  and  warmth  and  air, 
With  those  exalted  joys  compare 

Which  active  virtue  feels, 
When  on  she  drags,  as  lawful  prize, 
Contempt,  and  Indolence,  and  Vice, 

At  her  triumphant  wheels? 

'As  rest  to  labour  still  succeeds, 

To  man,  whilst  virtue's  glorious  deeds 

Employ  his  toilsome  day, 
This  fair  variety  of  things 
Are  merely  life's  refreshing  springs. 

To  sooth  him  on  his  way. 

'Enthusiast  go,  unstring  thy  lyre. 
In  vain  thou  sing'st  if  none  admire. 

How  sweet  soe'er  the  strain. 
And  is  not  thy  o'erflowing  mind. 
Unless  thou  mixest  with  thy  kind. 

Benevolent  in  vain? 

'Enthusiast  go,  try  every  sense, 
If  not  thy  bliss,  thy  excellence. 

Thou  yet  hast  learned  to  scan; 
At  least  thy  wants,  thy  weakness  know. 
And  see  them  all  uniting  show 

That  man  was  made  for  man.' 


I 


l^nn^^^        MARK   AKENSIDE 

From    THE    PLEASUEES    OF   IMAGINATION"  '7^7 

f 

[The  Esthetic  and  Moral  Influence  of  Nature] 

Fruitless  is  the  attempt. 
By  dull  obedience  and  by  creeping  toil 
Obscure,  to  conquer  the  severe  ascent 
Of  high  Parnassus.     Nature's  kindling  breath 
Must  fire  the  chosen  genius ;  Nature's  hand,  , 

f4  v»-.7«-»,  Aii-*-^ 


MARK   AKENSIDE  153 

Must  string  his  nerves,  and  imp  his  eagle-wings, 
Impatient  of  the  painful  steep,  to  soar  . 

High  as  the  summit,  there  to  breathe  at  large        ,?>>^^e.,*»cA. 
Ethereal  air,  with  bards  and  sages  old,  '         /y 

Immortal  sons  of  praise.  j>*-^<-»- 

Even  so  did  Nature's  hand 
To  certain  species  of  external  things 
Attune  the  finer  organs  of  the  mind : 
So  the  glad  impulse  of  congenial  powers, 
Or  of  sweet  sounds,  or  fair-proportioned  form, 
The  grace  of  motion,  or  the  bloom  of  light, 
Thrills  through  imagination's  tender  frame, 
From  nerve  to  nerve ;  all  naked  and  alive 
They  catch  the  spreading  rays,  till  now  the  soul 
At  length  discloses  every  tuneful  spring. 
To  that  harmonious  movement  from  without 
Responsive. 

What  then  is  taste,  but  these  internal  powers 
Active,  and  strong,  and  feelingly  alive 
To  each  fine  impulse  ?  a  discerning  sense 
Of  decent  and  sublime,  with  quick  disgust 
From  things  deformed,  or  disarranged,  or  gross 
In  species  ?    This,  nor  gems,  nor  stores  of  gold, 
Nor  purple  state,  nor  culture  can  bestow ; 
But  God  alone,  when  first  his  active  hand 
Imprints  the  secret  bias  of  the  soul. 
He,  mighty  parent  wise  and  just  in  all, 
Free  as  the  vital  breeze  or  light  of  heaven. 
Reveals  the  charms  of  nature.    Ask  the  swain 
Who  journey's  homeward  from  a  summer  day's 
Long  labour,  why,  forgetful  of  his  toils 
And  due  repose,  he  loiters  to  behold 
The  sunshine  gleaming  as  through  amber  clouds 
O'er  all  the  western  sky;  full  soon,  I  ween. 
His  rude  expression  and  untutored  airs. 
Beyond  the  power  of  language,  will  unfold 
The  form  of  beauty  smiling  at  his  heart — 
How  lovely!  how  commanding! 


I 

1f> 


154  ENGLISH   POETS 

Oh !  blest  of  Heaven,  whom  not  the  languid  songs  I   r* 

Of  Luxury,  the  siren !  nor  the  bribes  " 

Of  sordid  Wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  Honour,  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets  which,  from  the  store 
Of  Nature,  fair  Imagination  culls 
To  charm  th'  enlivened  soul !    What  though  not  all 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  heights 
Of  envied  life,  though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state; 
Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just. 
With  richer  treasure  and  an  ampler  state. 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign  to  use  them.    His  the  city's  pomp ; 
The  rural  honours  his.     Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch, 
The  breathing  marbles  and  the  sculptured  gold, 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim. 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him  the  Spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds ;  for  him  the  hand 
Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings; 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk. 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.    Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  sun's  effulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure  unreproved.     Nor  thence  partakes 
Fresh  pleasure  only;  for  th'  attentive  mind. 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious :  wont  so  oft 
In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 
To  find  a  kindred  order,  to  exert 
Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love. 
This  fair-inspired  delight;  her  tempered  powers 
Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 
But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 


\ 


JOSEPH   WARTON  155 

On  Nature's  form  where,  negligent  of  all 
These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  part 
Of  that  Eternal  Majesty  that  weighed 
The  world's  foundations,  if  to  these  the  mind 
Exalts  her  daring  eye;  then  mightier  far 
Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler.    Would  the  forms 
Of  servile  custom  cramp  her  generous  powers? 
Would  sordid  policies,  the  barbarous  growth 
Of  ignorance  and  rapine,  bow  her  down 
To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fear? 
Lo!  she  appeals  to  Nature,  to  the  winds 
And  rolling  waves,  the  sun's  unwearied  course, 
The  elements  and  seasons :  all  declare 
Eor  what  th'  Eternal  Maker  has  ordained 
The  powers  of  man :  we  feel  within  ourselves 
His  energy  divine :  he  tells  the  heart 
He  meant,  he  made  us.  to  behold  and  love 
What  he  beholds  and  loves,  the  general  orb 
Of  life  and  being;  to  be  great  like  him,  .-Jt-< 

Beneficent  and  active.    Thus  the  men  ^      /  f,/ 

Whom  nature's  works  can  charm,  with  God  himself       y^)r 
Hold  converse ;  grow  familiar,  day  by  day,  dr     B  • 

With  his  conceptions ;  act  upon  his  plan ;  1  >' 

I  And  form  to  his,  the  relish  of  their  souls.  ' ''  ''* 


:h 


JOSEPH   WARTON 

yy<''rROM   THE   ENTHUSIAST;   OR,  THE  LOVER  Of 

NATURE 

Ye  green-robed  Dryads,  oft  at  dusky  eve 

By  wondering  shepherds  seen,  to  forests  brown 

To  unfrequented  meads,  and  pathless  wilds. 

Lead  me  from  gardens  decked  with  art's  vain  pomps. 

Can  gilt  alcoves,  can  marble-mimic  gods. 

Parterres  embroidered,  obelisks,  and  urns 

Of  high  relief;  can  the  long,  spreading  lake. 

Or  vista  lessening  to  the  sight;  can  Stow, 


156  ENGLISH  POETS 

With  all  her  Attic  fanes,  such  raptures  raise, 
As  the  thrush-haunted  copse,  where  lightly  leaps 
The  fearful  fawn  the  rustling  leaves  along, 
And  the  brisk  squirrel  sports  from  bough  to  bough, 
While  from  an  hollow  oak,  whose  naked  roots 
O'erhang  a  pensive  rill,  the  busy  bees 
Hum  drowsy  lullabies?     The  bards  of  old. 
Fair  Nature's  friends,  sought  such  retreats,  to  charm 
Sweet  Echo  with  their  songs;  oft  too  they  met 
In  summer  evenings,  near  sequestered  bowers, 
Or  mountain  nymph,  or  Muse,  and  eager  learnt 
;  The  moral  strains  she  taught  to  mend  mankind. 
^1 

•''V'^llich  in  her  weeping  country's  spoils,  Versailles     -3-'=S»*'^ 
May  boast  a  thousand  fountains,  that  can  cast 
The  tortured  waters  to  the  distant  heavens : 
Yet  let  me  choose  some  pine-topped  precipice  ,     - 

Abrupt  and  shaggy,  whence  a  foamy  stream,  > 

Like  Anio,  tumbling  roars ;  or  some  bleak  heath,      a   / 
Where  straggling  stands  the  mournful  juniper,  i^JL  ' 

Or  yew-tree  scathed ;  while  in  clear  prospect  round  -^^^''tz-^ 
From  the  grove's  bosom  spires  emerge,  and  smoke  /vA^  y 
In  bluish  wreaths  ascends,  ripe  harvests  wave,  Aff-rJJt^ 
Low,  lonely  cottages,  and  ruined  tops  ' 

Of  Gothic  battlements  appear,  and  streams 
Beneath  the  sunbeams  twinkle. 


Happy  the  first  of  men,  ere  yet  confined       -^ 

To  smoky  cities ;  who  in  sheltering  groves,  A^f-^-^* 

Warm  caves,  and  deep-sunk  valleys  lived  and  loved,      ' 

By  cares  un wounded ;  what  the  sun  and  showers. 

And   genial   earth   untillaged,   could   produce. 

They  gathered  grateful,  or  the  acorn  brown 

Or  blushing  berry;  by  the  liquid  lapse 

Of  murmuring  waters  called  to  slake  their  thirst, 

Or  with  fair  nymphs  their  sun-brown  limbs  to  bathe; 

With  nymphs  who  fondly  clasped  their  favourite  youths, 

TJnawed  by  shame,  beneath  the  beechen  shade, 

Nor  wiles  nor  artificial  coyness  knew. 

Then  doors  and  walls  were  not;  the  melting  maid 

Nor  frown  of  parents  feared,  nor  husband's  threats; 


I 


JOSEPH  WARTON"  167 

Nor  had  cursed  gold  their  tender  hearts  allured : 
Then  beauty  was  not  venal.     Injured  Love, 
Oh!  whither,  god  of  raptures,  art  thou  fled? 

What  are  the  lays  of  artful  Addison,         -'73'fc-**-**'*-^/' 
ii>,,  I  Coldly  correct,  to  Shakespeare's  warblings  wild? 
^U"  Whom  on  the  winding  Avon's  willowed  banks 
Fair  Fancy  found,  and  bore  the  smiling  babe 
To  a  close  cavern  (still  the  shepherds  show 
The  sacred  place,  whence  with  religious  awe 
They  hear,  returning  from  the  field  at  eve, 
Strange  whisperings  of  sweet  music  through  the  air). 
Here,  as  with  honey  gathered  from  the  rock, 
She  fed  the  little  prattler,  and  with  songs 
Oft  soothed  his  wandering  ears;  with  deep  delight 
On  her  soft  lap  he  sat,  and  caught  the  sounds. 

Oft  near  some  crowded  city  would  I  walk, 
Listening  the  far-off  noises,  rattling  cars. 
Loud  shouts  of  joy,  sad  shrieks  of  sorrow,  knells 
Full  slowly  tolling,  instruments  of  trade. 
Striking  my  ears  with  one  deep-swelling  hum. 
Or  wandering  near  the  sea,  attend  the  sounds 
Of  hollow  winds  and  ever-beating  waves. 
Even  when  wild  tempests  swallow  up  the  plains, 
And  Boreas'  blasts,  big  hail,  and  rains  combine 
To  shake  the  groves  and  mountains,  would  I  sit, 
Pensively  musing  on  th'  outrageous  crimes 
That  wake  Heaven's  vengeance:  at  such  solemn  hours, 
Demons  and  goblins  through  the  dark  air  shriek. 
While  Hecat,  with  her  black-browed  sisters  nine. 
Rides  o'er  the  Earth,  and  scatters  woes  and  death. 
Then,  too,  they  say,  in  drear  Egyptian  wilds 
The  lion  and  the  tiger  prowl  for  prey 
With  roarings  loud !     The  listening  traveller 
Starts  fear-struck,  while  the  hollow  echoing  vaults 
Of  pyramids  increase  the  deathful  sounds. 
But  let  me  never  fail  in  cloudless  nights, 
When  silent  Cynthia  in  her  silver  ear 
Through  the  blue  concave  slides,  when  shine  the  hills, 
Twinkle  the  streams,  and  woods  look  tipped  with  gold, 
To  seek  some  level  mead,  and  there  invoke 


158  ENGLISH   POETS  ,/ 

/   \ 
Old  Midnight's  sister,  Contemplation  sage,  ^^    u 

(Queen  of  the  rugged  brow  and  stern-fixt  eye,)/*     i 
To  lift  my  soul  above  this  little  earth,  W  \  ff 

This  folly-fettered  world:  to  purge  my  ears,  .:'\     ^ 
That  I  may  hear  the  rolling  planets'  song, 
And  tuneful  turning  spheres :  if  this  be  barred 
The  little  fays,  that  dance  in  neighbouring  dales, 
Sipping  the  night-dew,  while  they  laugh  and  love, 
Shall  charm  me  with  aerial  notes. — As  thus 
I  wander  musing,  lo,  what  awful  forms 
Yonder  appear!  sharp-eyed  Philosophy 
Clad  in  dun  robes,  an  eagle  on  his  wrist. 
First  meets  my  eye ;  next,  virgin  Solitude 
Serene,  who  blushes  at  each  gazer's  sight ; 
Then  Wisdom's  hoary  head,  with  crutch  in  hand, 
Trembling,  and  bent  with  age;  last  Virtue's  self. 
Smiling,  in  white  arrayed,  who  with  her  leads 
Sweet  Innocence,  that  prattles  by  her  side, 
A  naked  boy ! — Harassed  with  fear  I  stop, 
I  gaze,  when  Virtue  thus — 'Whoe'er  thou  art, 
Mortal,  by  whom  I  deign  to  be  beheld 
In  these  my  midnight  walks ;  depart,  and  say, 
That  henceforth  I  and  my  immortal  train 
Forsake  Britannia's  isle ;  who  fondly  stoops 
To  vice,  her  favourite  paramour.'     She  spoke, 
And  as  she  turned,  her  round  and  rosy  neck, 
Her  flowing  train,  and  long  ambrosial  hair, 
Breathing  rich  odours,  I  enamoured  view. 

O  who  will  bear  me  then  to  western  climes. 
Since  virtue  leaves  our  wretched  land,  to  fields 
Yet  unpolluted  with  Iberian  swords, 
The  isles  of  innocence,  from  mortal  view 
Deeply  retired,  beneath  a  plantain's  shade. 
Where  happiness  and  quiet  sit  enthroned, 
With  simple  Indian  swains,  that  I  may  hunt 
The  boar  and  tiger  through  savannahs  wild. 
Through  fragrant  deserts  and  through  citron  groves? 
There  fed  on  dates  and  herbs,  would  I  despise 
The  far-fetched  cates  of  luxury,  and  hoards 
Of  narrow-hearted  avarice ;  nor  heed 
The  distant  din  of  the  tumultuous  world. 


JOHN   GILBERT    COOPER  159 

JOHN    GILBERT    COOPER 

From    THE  POWER   OF   HARMONY 

THE    HARMONY    OF   NATURE 

Hail,  thrice  hail! 
Ye  solitary  seats,  where  Wisdom  seeks 
Beauty  and  Good,  th'  unseparable  pair, 
Sweet  offspring  of  the  sky,  those  emblems  fair 
Of  the  celestial  cause,  whose  tuneful  word 
From  discord  and  from  chaos  raised  this  globe 
And  all  the  wide  effulgence  of  the  day. 
From  him  begins  this  beam  of  gay  delight. 
When  aught  harmonious  strikes  th'  attentive  mind; 
In  him  shall  end ;  for  he  attuned  the  frame 
Of  passive  organs  with  internal  sense. 
To  feel  an  instantaneous  glow  of  joy, 
When  Beauty  from  her  native  seat  of  Heaven, 
Clothed  in  ethereal  wildness,  on  our  plains 
Descends,  ere  Reason  with  her  tardy  eye 
Can  view  the  form  divine;  and  through  the  world 
The  heavenly  boon  to  every  being  flows. 


Nor  less  admire  those  things,  which  viewed  apart 

Uncouth  appear,  or  horrid ;  ridges  black 

Of  shagged  rocks,  which  hang  tremendous  o'er 

Some  barren  heath;  the  congregated  clouds 

Which  spread  their  sable  skirts,  and  wait  the  wind 

To  burst  th'  embosomed  storm ;  a  leafless  wood, 

A  mouldering  ruin,  lightning-blasted  fields; 

Nay,  e'en  the  seat  where  Desolation  reigns 

In  brownest  horror;  by  familiar  thought 

Connected  to  this  universal  frame. 

With  equal  beauty  charms  the  tasteful  soul 

As  the  gold  landscapes  of  the  happy  isles 

Crowned  with  Hesperian  fruit :  for  Nature  formed 

One  plan  entire,  and  made  each  separate  scene 


160  ENGLISH   POETS 

Co-operate  with  the  general  of  all 
In  that  harmonious  contrast. 


From  these  sweet  meditations  on  the  charms 

Of  things  external,  on  the  genuine  forms 

Which  blossom  in  creation,  on  the  scene 

Where  mimic  art  with  emulative  hue 

Usurps  the  throne  of  Nature  unreproved. 

On  the  just  concord  of  mellifluent  sounds; 

The  soul,  and  all  the  intellectual  train 

Of  fond  desires,  gay  hopes,  or  threatening  fears, 

Through  this  habitual  intercourse  of  sense 

Is  harmonized  within,  till  all  is  fair 

And  perfect;  till  each  moral  power  perceives 

Its  own  resemblance,  with  fraternal  joy, 

In  every  form  complete,  and  smiling  feels 

Beauty  and  Good  the  same. 


WILLIAM    COLLINS 
ODE 

WRITTEN   IN    THE    BEGINNING  OF   THE   YEAR   1746 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold. 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung. 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung; 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  grey. 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair. 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there! 


WILLIAM    COLLINS  161 

ODE    TO   EVENING     f^^^.y^-Ku-^  ' 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 

May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  thy  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs. 

Thy  springs  and  dying  gales, 

O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired  sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts. 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 

Now  air  is  hushed,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat, 
With  short,  shrill  shriek,  flits  by  on  leathern  wing; 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn. 

As  oft  he  rises  'midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum : 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  softened  strain. 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale. 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit, 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star,  arising,  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  elves 

Who  slept  in  flowers  the  day, 

And  many  a  nymph  who  M'reathes  her  brows  with  sedge, 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still. 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet. 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  lead,  calm  votaress,  where  some  sheety  lake 
Cheers  the  lone  heath,  or  some  time-hallowed  pile 

Or  upland  fallows  grey 

Reflect  its  last  cool  gleam. 


162  ENGLISH   POETS 

But  when  chill  blustering  winds  or  driving  rain 
Forbid  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That  from  the  mountain's  side 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

A.nd  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ; 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train, 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes; 

So  long,  sure-found  beneath  the  sylvan  shed, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  rose-lipped  Health, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  hymn  thy  favourite  name! 


ODE    ON   THE   POETICAL   CHARACTER 

STROPHE  ,  .     I\^ 

As  once —  if  not  with  light  regard     'f-V,..^,/,**---*' 

I  read  aright  that  gifted  bard 

(Him  whose  school  above  the  rest 

His  loveliest  Elfin  Queen  has  blest) — 

One,  only  one,  unrivalled  fair  - '    '^'* ' 

Might  hope  the  magic  girdle  wear. 

At  solemn  tourney  hung  on  high, 

The  wish  of  each  love-darting  eye; 
Lo !  to  each  other  nymph  in  turn  applied. 

As  if,  in  air  unseen,  some  hovering  hand. 
Some  chaste  and  angel  friend  to  virgin  fame. 

With  whispered  spell  had  burst  the  starting  band, 


WILLIAM    COLLINS  163 

It  left  unblest  her  loathed,  dishonoured  side; 
Happier,  hopeless  fair,  if  never 
Her  baffled  hand,  with  vain  endeavour, 

Had  touched  that  fatal  zone  to  her  denied! 

Young  Fancy  thus,  to  me  divinest  name. 

To  whom,  prepared  and  bathed  in  heaven, 
The  cest  of  amplest  power   is  given. 
To  few  the  godlike  gift  assigns 
To  gird  their  blest,  prophetic  loins, 
And  gaze  her  visions  wild,  and  feel  unmixed  her  flame  1 


The  band,  as  fairy  legends  say. 

Was  wove  on  that  creating  day 

When  He  who  called  with  thought  to  birth 

Yon  tented  sky,  this  laughing  earth, 

And  dressed  with  springs  and  forests  tall, 

And  poured  the  main  engirting  all, 

Long  by  the  loved  enthusiast  wooed. 

Himself  in  some  diviner  mood. 

Retiring,  sate  with  her  alone. 

And  placed  her  on  his  sapphire  throne. 

The  whiles,  the  vaulted  shrine  around. 

Seraphic  wires  were  heard  to  sound. 

Now  sublimest  triumph  swelling. 

Now  on  love  and  mercy  dwelling; 

And  she,  from  out  the  veiling  cloud. 

Breathed  her  magic  notes  aloud, 

And  thou,  thou  rich-haired  Youth  of  Mom, 

And  all  thy  subject  life,  was  bom ! 

The  dangerous  passions  kept  aloof. 

Far  from  the  sainted  growing  woof: 

But  near  it  sate  ecstatic  Wonder, 

Listening  the  deep  applauding  thunder; 

And  Truth,  in  sunny  vest  arrayed, 

By  whose  the  tarsel's  eyes  were  made; 

All  the  shadowy  tribes  of  mind. 

In  braided  dance,  their  murmurs  joined. 

And  all  the  bright  uncounted  powers 

Who  feed  on  heaven's  ambrosial  flowers. 

Where  is  the  bard  whose  soul  can  now 

Its  high  presuming  hopes  avow? 


1 

164  ENGLISH   POETS 

Where  he  who  thinks,  with  rapture  blind, 
This  hallowed  work  for  him  designed? 

ANTISTROPHE 

High  on  some  cliff,  to  heaven  up-piled, 
Of  rude  access,  of  prospect  wild. 
Where,  tangled  round  the  jealous  steep, 
Strange  shades  o'erbrow  the  valleys  deep. 
And  holy  genii  guard  the  rock, 
Its  glooms  embrown,  its  springs  unlock, 
While  on  its  rich  ambitious  head 
An  Eden,  like  his  own,  lies  spread, 

I  view  that  oak,  the  fancied  glades  among, 
By  which  as  Milton  lay,  his  evening  ear, 

From  many  a  cloud  that  dropped  ethereal  dew, 

Nigh  sphered  in  heaven,  its  native  strains  could 
hear. 

On  which  that  ancient  trump  he  reached  was  hung: 
Thither  oft,  his  glory  greeting, 
From  Waller's  myrtle  shades  retreating, 

With  many  a  vow  from  Hope's  aspiring  tongue. 

My  trembling  feet  his  guiding  steps  pursue ; 
In  vain — such  bliss  to  one  alone 
Of  all  the  sons  of  soul  was  known, 
And  Heaven  and  Fancy,  kindred  powers, 
Have  now  o'erturned  th'  inspiring  bowers, 
Or  curtained  close  such  scene  from  every  future  view. 


THE   PASSIONS 

AN   ODE    FOR    MUSIC 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young. 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Thronged  around  her  magic  cell, 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possessed  beyond  the  Muse's  painting; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  raised,  refined : 


WILLIAM   COLLINS  166 

Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired. 
Filled  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatched  her  instruments  of  sound; 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art. 
Each  (for  madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  in  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 
Amid  the  chords  bewildered  laid, 

And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why. 

Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rushed:  his  eyes,  on  fire, 

In  lightnings  owned  his  secret  stings; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre, 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings. 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair 

Low,  sullen  sounds  his  grief  beguiled; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air — 

'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  Hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 
What  was  thy  delightful  measure  ? 
Still  it  whispered  promised  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail ! 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale. 
She  called  on  Echo  still,  through  all  the  song; 
And  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close, 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden  hair. 

And  longer  had  she  sung — but  with  a  frown 

Revenge  impatient  rose ; 
He  threw  his  blood-stained  sword  in  thunder  down, 
And  with  a  withering  look 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took. 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread. 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe. 


166  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  ever  and  anon  lie  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat; 
And  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between. 
Dejected  Pity,  at  his  side, 
Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While  each  strained  ball  of  sight  seemed  bursting  from  his 
head. 
Thy  numbers.  Jealousy,  to  naught  were  fixed. 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state; 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mixed, 
And  now  it  courted  Love,  now  raving  called  on  Hate. 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  inspired, 
Pale  Melancholy  sate  retired, 
And  from  her  wild  sequestered  seat. 
In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet. 
Poured  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 
And,  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around. 
Bubbling  runnels  joined  the  sound : 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole, 
Or  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay. 
Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing. 
Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing. 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away.     ' 

But  O  how  altered  was  its  snrightlier  tone. 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue. 
Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemmed  with  morning  dew. 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
The  hunter's  call,  to  faun  and  dryad  known ! 
The  oak-crowned  sisters,  and  their  chaste-eyed  queen, 

Satyrs,  and  sylvan  boys,  were  seen. 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green ; 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear; 
And  Sport  leaped  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial: 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

Eirst  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addressed; 
But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best. 


WILLIAM   COLLINS  167 

They  would  have  thought,  who  heard  the  strain, 
They  saw  in  Tempe's  vale  her  native  maids, 

Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades, 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing. 
While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kissed  the  strings, 

Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round ; 

Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound. 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play. 

As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay. 
Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  Music !  sphere-descended  maid ! 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid! 
Why,  goddess,  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside? 
As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower 
You  learned  an  all-commanding  power. 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  nymph  endeared. 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart. 
Devote  to  Virtue.  Fancy,  Art? 
Arise  as  in  that  elder  time. 
Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  godlike  age. 
Fill  thy  recording  sister's  page: 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail. 
Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage. 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age. 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound. 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease : 
Eevive  the  just  designs  of  Greece; 
Eeturn  in  all  thy  simple  state; 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate! 


168  ENGLISH   POETS 

ODE    ON    THE    POPULAE    SUPEESTITIONS    OF 
THE   HIGHLANDS    OF    SCOTLAND 

Considered  as  the  Subject  of  Poetry 

H ,  thou  return'st  from  Thames,  whose  naiads  long 

Have  seen  thee  lingering,  with  a  fond  delay, 

'Mid  those  soft  friends,  whose  hearts,  some  future  day, 
Shall  melt,  perhaps,  to  hear  thy  tragic  song. 
Go,  not  unmindful  of  that  cordial  youth 

Whom,  long-endeared,  thou  leav'st  by  Levant's  side; 
Together  let  us  wish  him  lasting  truth, 

And  joy  untainted,  with  his  destined  bride. 
Go !  nor  regardless,  while  these  numbers  boast 

My  short-lived  bliss,  forget  my  social  name; 
But  think,  far  off,  how  on  the  Southern  coast 

I  met  thy  friendship  with  an  equal  flame ! 
Fresh  to  that  soil  thou  turn'st,  whose  every  vale 

Shall  prompt  the  poet,  and  his  song  demand: 
To  thee  thy  copious  subjects  ne'er  shall  fail ; 

Thou  need'st  but  take-  the  pencil  to  thy  hand. 
And  paint  what  all  believe  who  own  thy  genial  land. 


There  must  thou  wake  perforce  thy  Doric  quill ; 

'Tis  Fancy's  land  to  which  thou  sett'st  thy  feet. 

Where  still,  'tis  said,  the  fairy  people  meet  / 

Beneath  each  birken  shade  on  mead  or  hill.  V-"-^ 

There  each  trim  lass  that  skims  the  milky  store  ■ ' 

To  the  swart  tribes  their  creamy  bowl  allots; 
By  night  they  sip  it  round  the  cottage  door, 

While  airy  minstrels  warble  jocund  notes. 
There  every  herd,  by  sad  experience,  knows 

How,  winged  with  fate,  their  elf -shot  arrows  fly; 
When  the  sick  ewe  her  summer  food  foregoes. 

Or,  stretched  on  earth,  the  heart-smit  heifers  lie. 
Such  airy  beings  awe  th'  untutored  swain : 

Nor  thou,  though  leam'd,  his  homelier  thoughts  neglect ; 
Let  thy  sweet  Muse  the  rural  faith  sustain: 

These  are  the  themes  of  simple,  sure  effect. 


WILLIAM    COLLINS  169 

That  add  new  conquests  to  her  boundless  reign, 

And  fill,  with  double  force,  her  heart-commanding  strain. 

\^  vr^  in 

k^  Even  yet  preserved,  how  often  may'st  thou  hear,  jr^^y 

^■^'     Where  to  the  pole  the  boreal  mountains  run,  \Aa^ 

K-^:.    Taught  by  the  father  to  his  listening  son, 

*^^  Strange  lays,  whose  power  had  charmed  a  Spenser's  ear. 

^^  At  every  pause,  before  thy  mind  possessed. 

Old  Runic  bards  shall  seem  to  rise  around. 
With  uncouth  lyres,  in  many-coloured  vest, 

Their  matted  hair  with  boughs  fantastic  crowned: 
Whether  thou  bid'st  the  well-taught  hind  repeat 

The  choral  dirge  that  mourns  some  chieftain  brave, 
When  every  shrieking  maid  her  bosom  beat, 

And  strewed  with  choicest  herbs  his  scented  grave; 
Or  whether,  sitting  in  the  shepherd's  shiel. 

Thou  hear'st  some  sounding  tale  of  war's  alarms. 
When,  at  the  bugle's  call,  with  fire  and  steel. 

The  sturdy  clans  poured  forth  their  bony  swarms. 
And  hostile  brothers  met  to  prove  each  other's  arms. 


rv 

'Tis  thine  to  sing,  how,  framing  hideous  spells, 

In  Skye's  lone  isle  the  gifted  wizard  seer. 

Lodged  in  the  wintry  cave  with  [Fate's  fell  spear;] 
Or  in  the  depth  of  Uist's  dark  forests  dwells : 
How  they  whose  sight  such  dreary  dreams  engross. 

With  their  own  visions  oft  astonished  droop. 
When  o'er  the  watery  strath  or  quaggy  moss 

They  see  the  gliding  ghosts  unbodied  troop ; 
Or  if  in  sports,  or  on  the  festive  green. 

Their  [destined]  glance  some  fated  youth  descry. 
Who,  now  perhaps  in  lusty  vigour  seen 

And  rosy  health,  shall  soon  lamented  die. 
For  them  the  viewless  forms  of  air  obey. 

Their  bidding  heed,  and  at  their  beck  repair. 
They  know  what  spirit  brews  the  stormful  day. 

And,  heartless,  oft  like  moody  madness  stare 
To  see  the  phantom  train  their  secret  work  prepare. 


170  ENGLISH   POETS 


[To  monarchs  dear,  some  hundred  miles  astray,  ^t" 

Oft  have  they  seen.  Fate  give  the  fatal  blow !  ^'    /aTl^ 

The  seer,  in  Skye,  shrieked  as  the  blood  did  flow,  Z-' '^^^^"^ 
When  headless  Charles  warm  on  the  scalfold  lay! 
As  Boreas  threw  his  young  Aurora  forth. 

In  the  first  year  of  the  first  George's  reign. 
And  battles  raged  in  welkin  of  the  North, 

They  mourned  in  air,  fell,  fell  Rebellion  slain ! 
And  as,  of  late,  they  joyed  in  .Preston's  fight. 

Saw  at  sad  Falkirk  all  their  hopes  near  crowned. 
They  raved,  divining,  through  their  second  sight. 

Pale,  red  Culloden,  where  these  hopes  were  drowned  I 
Illustrious  William!     Britain's  guardian  name!  y 

One  William  saved  us  from  a  tyrant's  stroke;  \/\ 

He,  for  a  sceptre,  gained  heroic  fame;  v  V^- 

But  thou,  more  glorious,  Slavery's  chain  hast  broke. 
To  reign  a  private  man,  and  bow  to  Freedom's  yoke! 

VI 

These,  too,  thou'lt  sing !  for  well  thy  magic  Muse 

Can  to  the  topmost  heaven  of  grandeur  soar ! 

Or  stoop  to  wail  the  swain  that  is  no  more ! 
Ah,  homely  swains !  your  homeward  steps  ne'er  lose ; 
Let  not  dank  Will  mislead  you  to  the  heath: 

Dancing  in  mirky  night,  o'er  fen  and  lake. 
He  glows,  to  draw  you  downward  to  your  death, 

In  his  bewitched,  low,  marshy  willow  brake!] 
What  though  far  off,  from  some  dark  dell  espied. 
His  glimmering  mazes  cheer  th'  excursive  sight. 
Yet  turn,  ye  wanderers,  turn  your  steps  aside, 

Nor  trust  the  guidance  of  that  faithless  light; 
For,  watchful,  lurking  'mid  th'  unrustling  reed. 

At  those  mirk  hours  the  wily  monster  lies. 
And  listens  oft  to  hear  the  passing  steed, 

And  frequent  round  him  rolls  his  sullen  eyes. 
If  chance  his  savage  wrath  may  some  weak  wretch  surprise. 

vu 

Ah,  luckless  swain,  o'er  all  unblest  indeed ! 

Whom,  late  bewildered  in  the  dank,  dark  fen. 
Far  from  his  flocks  and  smoking  hamlet  then, 

To  that  sad  spot  [where  hums  the  sedgy  weed:] 


WILLIAM    COLLINS  171 

On  him,  enraged,  the  fiend,  in  angry  mood, 

Shall  never  look  with  Pity's  kind  concern, 
But  instant,  furious,  raise  the  whelming  flood 

O'er  its  drowned  bank,  forbiddir;g  all  return. 
Or,  if  he  meditate  his  wished  escape 

To  some  dim  hill  that  seems  uprising  near. 
To  his  faint  eye  the  grim  and  grisly  shape. 

In  all  its  terrors  clad,  shall  wild  appear. 
Meantime,  the  watery  surge  shall  round  him  rise,  //; 

Poured  sudden  forth  from  every  swelling  source.  '^^ 

What  now  remains  but  tears  and  hopeless  sighs? 

His  fear-shook  limbs  have  lost  their  youthly  force. 
And  down  the  waves  he  floats,  a  pale  and  breathless  corse.       ^ 

VIII 

For  him,  in  vain,  his  anxious  wife  shall  wait. 

Or  wander  forth  to  meet  him  on  his  way;      j/k^t^^^.^     .^ 

For  him,  in  vain,  at  to-fall  of  the  day,  wi,.-«^c^?'^  w^*^'^ 

His  babes  shall  linger  at  th'  unclosing  gate. 
Ah,  ne'er  shall  he  return !    Alone,  if  night 

Her  travelled  limbs  in  broken  slumbers  steep, 
With  dropping  willows  dressed,  his  mournful  sprite 

Shall  visit  sad,  perchance,  her  silent  sleep : 
Then  he,  perhaps,  with  moist  and  watery  hand. 

Shall  fondly  seem  to  press  her  shuddering  cheek, 
And  with  his  blue-swoln  face  before  her  stand, 

And,  shivering  cold,  these  piteous  accents  speak: 
'Pursue,  dear  wife,  thy  daily  toils  pursue 

At  dawn  or  dusk,  industrious  as  before ;  I 

Nor  e'er  of  me  one  hapless  thought  renew,  I 

While  I  lie  weltering  on  the  oziered  shore, 
Drowned  by  the  kelpie's  wrath,  nor  e'er  shall  aid  thee  more  V 

IX 

Unbounded  is  thy  range;  with  varied  style 

Thy  Muse  may,  like  those  feathery  tribes  which  spring 
From  their  rude  rocks,  extend  her  skirting  wing 

Round  the  moist  marge  of  each  cold  Hebrid  isle 

To  that  hoar  pile  which  still  its  ruin  shows : 
In  whose  small  vaults  a  pigmy-folk  is  found, 

Whose  bones  the  delver  with  his  spade  upthrows. 

And  culls  them,  wondering,  from  the  hallowed  ground  I 


173  ENGLISH   POETS 

Or  thither,  where,  beneath  the  showery  West, 

The  mighty  kings  of  three  fair  realms  are  laid: 
Once  foes,  perhaps,  together  now  they  rest ; 

No  slaves  revere  them,  and  no  wars  invade : 
Yet  frequent  now,  at  midnight's  solemn  hour, 

The  rifted  mounds  their  yawning  cells  unfold, 
And  forth  the  monarchs  stalk  with  sovereign  power, 

In  pageant  robes,  and  wreathed  with  sheeny  gold, 
And  on  their  twilight  tombs  aerial  council  hold. 


But  oh,  o'er  all,  forget  not  Kilda's  race, 

On  whose  bleak  rocks,  which  brave  the  wasting  tides, 

Fair  Nature's  daughter.  Virtue,  yet  abides. 
Go,  just  as  they,  their  blameless  manners  trace! 
Then  to  my  ear  transmit  some  gentle  song 

Of  those  whose  lives  are  yet  sincere  and  plain. 
Their  bounded  walks  the  rugged  cliffs  along, 

And  all  their  prospect  but  the  wintry  main. 
With  sparing  temperance,  at  the  needful  time, 

They  drain  the  sainted  spring,  or,  hunger-pressed, 
Along  th'  Atlantic  rock  undreading  climb. 

And  of  its  eggs  despoil  the  solan's  nest.  ^ 

Thus  blest  in  primal  innocence  they  live,  ^ 

Sufficed  and  happy  with  that  frugal  fare 
Which  tasteful  toil  and  hourly  danger  give. 

Hard  is  their  shallow  soil,  and  bleak  and  bare ; 
Nor  ever  vernal  bee  was  heard  to  murmur  there! 

XI 

Nor  need'st  thou  blush,  that  such  false  themes  engage 

Thy  gentle  mind,  of  fairer  stores  possessed ; 

For  not  alone  they  touch  the  village  breast, 
But  filled  in  elder  time  th'  historic  page. 
There  Shakespeare's  self,  with  every  garland  crowned, — 

[Flew  to  those  fairy  climes  his  fancy  sheen!] — 
In  musing  hour,  his  wayward  Sisters  found, 

And  with  their  terrors  dressed  the  magic  scene. 
From  them  he  sung,  when,  'mid  his  bold  design, 

Before  the  Scot  afflicted  and  aghast,_ 
The  shadowy  kings  of  Banquo's  fated  line 

Through  the  dark  cave  in  gleamy  pageant  passed. 


WILLIAM    COLLINS  173 

Proceed,  nor  quit  the  tales  which,  simply  told, 
Could  once  so  well  my  answering  bosom  pierce; 

Proceed!  in  forceful  sounds  and  colours  bold, 
The  native  legends  of  thy  land  rehearse; 

To  such  adapt  thy  lyre  and  suit  thy  powerful  verse. 


xn 

In  scenes  like  these,  which,  daring  to  depart 

From  sober  truth,  are  still  to  nature  true, 

And  call  forth  fresh  delight  to  Fancy's  view, 
Th'  heroic  muse  employed  her  Tasso's  art! 
How  have  I  trembled,  when,  at  Tancred's  stroke. 

Its  gushing  blood  the  gaping  cypress  poured; 
When  each  live  plant  with  mortal  accents  spoke. 

And  the  wild  blast  upheaved  the  vanished  sword! 
How  have  I  sat,  when  piped  the  pensive  wind, 

To  hear  his  harp,  by  British  Fairfax  strung, — 
Prevailing  poet,  whose  undoubting  mind 

Believed  the  magic  wonders  which  he  sung! 
Hence  at  each  sound  imagination  glows; 

[The  MS.  lads  a  line  here.] 
Hence  his  warm  lay  with  softest  sweetness  flows ; 

Melting  it  flows,  pure,  numerous,  strong,  and  clear. 
And  fills  th'  impassioned  heart,  and  wins  th'  harmonious 


XIII 

All  hail,  ye  scenes  that  o'er  my  soul  prevail. 

Ye  [splendid]  friths  and  lakes  which,  far  away. 
Are  by  smooth  Annan  fill'd.  or  pastoral  Tay, 

Or  Don's  romantic  springs;  at  distance,  hail! 

The  time  shall  come  when  I,  perhaps,  may  tread 
Your  lowly  glens,  o'erhung  with  spreading  broom. 

Or  o'er  your  stretching  heaths  by  fancy  led 

[Or  o'er  your  mountains  creep,  in  awful  gloom:] 

Then  will  I  dress  once  more  the  faded  bower. 
Where  Jonson  sat  in  Drummond's  [classic]  shade. 

Or  crop  from  Teviot's  dale  each  [lyric  flower] 

And  mourn  on  Yarrow's  banks  [where  Willy's  laid !] 


174  ENGLISH   POETS 

Meantime,  ye  Powers  that  on  the  plains  which  bore 
The  cordial  youth,  on  Lothian's  plains,  attend, 

Where'er  he  dwell,  on  hill  or  lowly  muir, 
To  him  I  lose  your  kind  protection  lend. 

And,   touched   with   love   like  mine,   preserve  my   absent 
friend ! 


''^'    ■         THOMAS   WARTON^l-.T.^<^/^^ 

From   THE   PLEASUEES    OF   MELANCHOLY  ._ 

Beneath  yon  ruined  abbey's  moss-grown  piles 

Oft  let  me  sit,  at  twilight  hour  of  eve, 

Where  through  some  western  window  the  pale  moon 

Pours  her  long-levelled  rule  of  streaming  light. 

While  sullen,  sacred  silence  reigns  around. 

Save  the  lone  screech-owl's  note,  who  builds  his  bower 

Amid  the  mouldering  caverns  dark  and  damp. 

Or  the  calm  breeze  that  rustles  in  the  leaves 

Of  flaunting  ivy,  that  with  mantle  green 

Invests  some  wasted  tower.     Or  let  me  tread 

Its  neighbouring  walk  of  pines,  where  mused  of  old 

The  cloistered  brothers :  through  the  gloomy  void 

That  far  extends  beneath  their  ample  arch 

As  on  I  pace,  religious  horror  wraps 

My  soul  in  dread  repose.    But  when  the  world 

Is  clad  in  midnight's  raven-coloured  robe, 

'Mid  hollow  charnel  let  me  watch  the  flame 

Of  taper  dim,  shedding  a  livid  glare 

O'er  the  wan  heaps,  while  airy  voices  talk 

Along  the  glimmering  walls,  or  ghostly  shape. 

At  distance  seen,  invites  with  beckoning  hand 

My  lonesome  steps  through  the  far-winding  vaults. 

Nor  undelightful  is  the  solemn  noon 

Of  night,  when,  haply  wakeful,  from  my  couch 

I  start :  lo,  all  is  motionless  around ! 

Roars  not  the  rushing  wind ;  the  sons  of  men 

And  every  beast  in  mute  oblivion  lie; 

All  nature's  hushed  in  silence  and  in  sleep : 


THOMAS    WAETON  175 

O  then  how  fearful  is  it  to  reflect 
That  through  the  still  globe's  awful  solitude 
No  being  wakes  but  me !  till  stealing  sleep 
My  drooping  temples  bathes  in  opiate  dews. 
Nor  then  let  dreams,  of  wanton  folly  born, 
My  senses  lead  through  flowery  paths  of  joy: 
But  let  the  sacred  genius  of  the  night 
Such  mystic  visions  send  as  Spenser  saw 
When  through  bewildering  Fancy's  magic  maze. 
To  the  fell  house  of  Busyrane,  he  led 
Th'  unshaken  Britomart ;  or  Milton  knew, 
When  in  abstracted  thought  he  first  conceived 
All  Heaven  in  tumult,  and  the  seraphim 
Come  towering,  armed  in  adamant  and  gold. 


Through  Pope's  soft  song  though  all  the  Graces  breathe. 

And  happiest  art  adorn  his  Attic  page, 

Yet  does  my  mind  with  sweeter  transport  glow. 

As,  at  the  root  of  mossy  trunk  reclined. 

In  magic  Spenser's  wildly-warbled  song 

I  see  deserted  Una  wander  wide 

Through  wasteful  solitudes  and  lurid  heaths. 

Weary,  forlorn,  than  when  the  fated  fair 

Upon  the  bosom  bright  of  silver  Thames 

Launches  in  all  the  lustre  of  brocade, 

Amid  the  splendours  of  the  laughing  sun: 

The  gay  description  palls  upon  the  sense, 

And  coldly  strikes  the  mind  with  feeble  bliss. 


The  tapered  choir,  at  the  late  hour  of  prayer, 

Oft  let  me  tread,  while  to  th'  according  voice 

The  many-sounding  organ  peals  on  high 

The  clear  slow-dittied  chant  or  varied  hymn. 

Till  all  my  soul  is  bathed  in  ecstasies 

And  lapped  in  Paradise.     Or  let  me  sit 

Far  in  sequestered  aisles  of  the  deep  dome; 

There  lonesome  listen  to  the  sacred  sounds. 

Which,  as  they  lengthen  through  the  Gothic  vaults. 

In  hollow  murmurs  reach  my  ravished  ear. 

Nor  when  the  lamps,  expiring,  yield  to  night. 


176  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  solitude  returns,  would  I  forsake 
The  solemn  mansion,  but  attentive  mark 
The  due  clock  swinging  slow  with  sweepy  sway, 
Measuring  Time's  flight  with  momentary  sound. 


From    THE    GEAVE    OF    KING   AETHUE 

[The  Passing  of  the  King] 

O'er  Cornwall's  cliffs  the  tempest  roared, 
High  the  screaming  sea-mew  soared ; 
On  Tintagel's  topmost  tower 
Darksome  fell  the  sleety  shower; 
Eound  the  rough  castle  shrilly  sung 
The  whirling  blast,  and  wildly  flung 
On  each  tall  rampart's  thundering  side 
The  surges  of  the  tumbling  tide: 
When  Arthur  ranged  his  red-cross  ranks 
On  conscious  Camlan's  crimsoned  banks : 
By  Mordred's  faithless  guile  decreed 
Beneath  a  Saxon  spear  to  bleed! 
Yet  in  vain  a  paynim  foe 
Armed  with  fate  the  mighty  blow; 
For  when  he  fell,  an  Elfin  Queen 
All  in  secret,  and  unseen, 
O'er  the  fainting  hero  threw 
Her  mantle  of  ambrosial  blue; 
And  bade  her  spirits  bear  him  far, 
In  Merlin's  agate-axled  car. 
To  her  green  isle's  enamelled  steep 
Far  in  the  navel  of  the  deep. 
O'er  his  wounds  she  sprinkled  dew 
From  flowers  that  in  Arabia  grew : 
On  a  rich  enchanted  bed 
She  pillowed  his  majestic  head; 
O'er  his  brow,  with  whispers  bland. 
Thrice  she  waved  an  opiate  wand; 
And  to  soft  music's  airy  sound. 
Her  magic  curtains  closed  around. 
There,  renewed  the  vital  spring, 
Again  he  reigns  a  mighty  king; 


THOMAS    WARTON  177 

And  many  a  fair  and  fragrant  clime. 
Blooming  in  immortal  prime, 
By  gales  of  Eden  ever  fanned, 
Owns  the  monarch's  high  command : 
Thence  to  Britain  shall  return 
(If  right  prophetic  rolls  I  learn), 
Born  on  Victory's  spreading  plume, 
His  ancient  sceptre  to  resume; 
Once  more,  in  old  heroic  pride, 
His  barbed  courser  to  bestride; 
His  knightly  table  to  restore, 
And  brave  the  tournaments  of  yore. 

SONNET   WRITTEN   IN   A   BLANK   LEAF   OF 
DUGDALE'S    'MONASTICON' 

Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage. 
By  Fancy's  genuine  feelings  unbeguiled. 
Of  painful  pedantry  the  poring  child. 
Who  turns,  of  these  proud  domes,  th'  historic  page. 
Now  sunk  by  Time,  and  Henry's  fiercer  rage. 
Think'st  thou  the  warbling  Muses  never  smiled 
On  his  lone  hours?    Ingenuous  views  engage 
His  thoughts,  on  themes,  unclassic  falsely  styled. 
Intent.     While  cloistered  Piety  displays 
Her  mouldering  roll,  the  piercing  eye  explores 
New  manners,  and  the  pomp  of  elder  days, 
Whence  culls  the  pensive  bard  his  pictured  stores. 
Nor  rough  nor  barren  are  the  winding  ways 
Of  hoar  antiquity,  but  strown  with  flowers. 


SONNET   WRITTEN   AT    STONEHENGE       ^,^.^,^^ 

^f^       Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle !  .t'^-^^^  .'^^ . 

r'"^'       Whether  by  Merlin's  aid  from  Scythia's  shore, 

*'^  To  Amber's  fatal  plain  Pendragon  bore. 

Huge  frame  of  giant-hands,  the  mighty  pile, 
T'  entomb  his  Britons  slain  by  Hengist's  guile: 
Or  Druid  priests,  sprinkled  with  human  gore. 
Taught  'mid  thy  massy  maze  their  mystic  lore: 


178  ENGLISH  POETS 

Or  Danish  chiefs,  enriched  with  savage  spoil. 

To  Victory's  idol  vast,  an  unhewn  shrine, 

Reared  the  rude  heap :  or,  in  thy  hallowed  round, 

Repose  the  kings  of  Brutus'  genuine  line; 

Or  here  those  kings  in  solemn  state  were  crowned : 

Studious  to  trace  thy  wondrous  origin, 

We  muse  on  many  an  ancient  tale  renowned. 


SONNET    TO    THE   RIVER  LODON 

Ah!  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run. 

Since  first  I  trod  thy  banks  with  alders  crowned. 

And  thought  my  way  was  all  through  fairy  ground. 

Beneath  thy  azure  sky  and  golden  sun. 

Where  first  my  Muse  to  lisp  her  notes  begun ! 

While  pensive  Memory  traces  back  the  round. 

Which  fills  the  varied  interval  between ; 

Much  pleasure,  more  of  sorrow,  marks  the  scene. 

Sweet  native  stream !  those  skies  and  suns  so  pure 

No  more  return,  to  cheer  my  evening  road! 

Yet  still  one  joy  remains:  that  not  obscure 

Nor  useless,  all  my  vacant  days  have  flowed, 

Erom  youth's  gay  dawn  to  manhood's  prime  mature; 

Nor  with  the  Muse's  laurel  unbestowed. 


THOMAS    GKAY       -^-^  f^^ 


ODE    ON   A   DISTANT   PROSPECT    OF   ETON 
,  COLLEGE 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers. 

That  crown  the  watery  glade,  ^^  ^ 

Where  grateful  Science  still  adores  --<  ■<--'^A^' 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade; 

And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 

Of  Windsor's  heights  th'  expanse  below 


THOMAS    GRAY  179 

Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey. 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way. 

Ah,  happy  hills!  ah,  pleasing  shade! 

Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain!  '   ■- 

I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow, 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow. 

As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing,  ^'  '' 

My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth. 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace, 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm  thy  glassy  wave  ? 
The  captive  linnet  which  enthrall? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed, 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murmuring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours,  that  bring  constraint 

To  sweeten  liberty: 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign. 

And  unknown  regions  dare  descry: 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 

And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 

Less  pleasing  when  possessed; 
The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed. 

The  sunshine  of  the  breast : 


180  ENGLISH   POETS 

Theirs  buxom  health  of  rosy  hue, 
Wild  wit,  invention  ever-new, 

And  lively  cheer  of  vigour  bom; 
The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night. 
The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light. 

That  fly  th'  approach  of  morn. 


Alas!  regardless  of  their  doom, 

The  little  victims  play; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come. 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day : 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train! 
Ah,  shew  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey  the  murderous  band! 

Ah,  tell  them,  they  are  men! 


These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  skulks  behind; 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth. 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth, 

That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart. 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 


Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high. 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice. 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try. 
And  hard  Unkindness'  altered  eye. 

That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled. 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 

Amid  severest  woe. 


THOMAS    GEAY  181 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  grisly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death, 

More  hideous  than  their  Queen : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins. 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 

Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage: 
Lo,  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand. 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufi"erings;  all  are  men. 

Condemned  alike  to  groan. 
The  tender  for  another's  pain; 

The  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah!  why  should  they  know  their  fate. 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more;  where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 


HYMN    TO    ADVERSITY 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power. 

Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  afi'right,  afflict  the  best! 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain, 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 

And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  tmpitied  and  alone. 

When  first  thy  sire  to  send  on  earth 

Virtue,  his  darling  child,  designed, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth. 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stem,  rugged  nurse!  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore; 
What  sorrow  was  thou  bad'st  her  know. 
And  from  her  own  she  learned  to  melt  at  other's  woe. 


182  ENGLISH  POETS 

Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 

Self-pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 
Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good: 
Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe; 
By  vain  Prosperity  received, 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth  and  are  again  believed. 

Wisdom  in  sable  garb  arrayed, 

Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound, 

And  Melancholy,  silent  maid 

With  leaden  eye,  that  loves  the  ground. 

Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend; 

Warm  Charity,  the  genial  friend, 

With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  Pity,  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 

Oh,  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head. 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand! 

Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 

(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen), 

With  thundering  voice  and  threatening  mien, 
With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty:  , 

Thy  form  benign,  O  goddess,  wear,  Ji    ) 

Thy  milder  influence  impart ;  ,   i 

Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound,  my  heart; 

The  generous  spark  extinct  revive. 

Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive, 

Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan. 
What  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a  man. 


THOMAS    GKAT  183 

>p.^v  ^--^i  -  <.^  '  A^  '  f  ^^  ^^^,^  ^u^^  ^..^ 

^*^r^  W^,.c        ELEGY         U  ^  .,<.,^^c.  r^U^ 

■-'fOo^-^JL^  WRITTEN   IN   A   COUNTRY    CHURCHYARD  ' 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day,  'i  j  j,^y.-<^t 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 

And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me.  \j^  jatjuy* 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight. 

And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds,  "  &^ 

Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds; 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 

The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such,  as  wandering  near  her  secret  bower,  |0-a,/^-^ 

Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade. 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid. 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  mom, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn. 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn. 

Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care: 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke; 

How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield! 

How  bowed  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  I 

Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toll. 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure ; 
Nor  Grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 

The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


184  ENGLISH   POETS 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power. 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave. 
Await  alike  th'  inevitable  hour. 
I  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault. 
If  Memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise. 

Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted'  v^ault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 

Can  Honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust. 
Or  Elattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed. 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repressed  their  noble  rage. 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene. 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear: 

Pull  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 

Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest. 

Some  Cromwell  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise. 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 


THOMAS    GRAY  185 

Their  lot  forbade :  nor  circumscribed  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined; 

Forbade  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne. 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind. 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide. 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 

Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife. 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 

Along  the  cool  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  even  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked. 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  names,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unlettered  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply: 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies. 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 

Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries. 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who  mindful  of  th'  unhonoured  dead 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate, 

If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led. 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate. 


186  ENGLISH   POETS 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
'Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 

Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

'There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length  at  noontide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

'Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn. 

Or  crazed  with  care,  or  crossed  in  hopeless  love. 

'One  morn  I  missed  him  on  the  customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree; 

Another  came ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he; 

'The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne, — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.' 

THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 

Fair  Science  frowned  not  on  his  humble  hirth. 
And  Melancholy  marked  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  (all  he  Jvad)  a  tear. 

He  gained  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wished)  a  friend. 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose. 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) — 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


THOMAS   GKAY  187 

THE   PROGRESS    OF   POESY 
I.  1 
Awake,  ^olian  lyre,  awake. 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings  I 

From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 
A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take; 

The  laughing  flowers  that  round  them  blow 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 

Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong. 
Through  verdant  vales  and  Ceres'  golden  reign : 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain. 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour; 
The  rocks  and  nodding  groves  rebellow  to  the  roar. 

I.  2 

Oh  sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs. 

Enchanting  shell!  the  sullen  Cares 
And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  control. 

On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War 

Has  curbed  the  fury  of  his  car 
And  dropped  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 

Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feathered  king 

With  ruffled  plumes  and  flagging  wing; 

Quenched  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak  and  lightnings  of  his  eye. 

I.  3 
Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey. 
Tempered  to  thy  warbled  lay. 
O'er  Idalia's  velvet-green 
The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen. 

On  Cytherea's  day, 
With  antic  Sports  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures 
Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures: 
Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet ; 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 

Glance  their  many-twinkling  feet. 


188  ENGLISH   POETS 

Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach  declare: 
Where'er  she  turns  the  Graces  homage  pay; 

With  arms  sublime,  that  float  upon  the  air, 
In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way; 

O'er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom  move 
The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple  light  of  Love. 

II.  1 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await: 
Labour,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 

Disease,  and  Sorrow's  weeping  train, 
And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  Fate  I 

The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove. 

And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 
Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly  Muse? 

Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 
Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry, 

He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky; 

Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 
Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glittering  shafts  of  war. 

II.  2 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road. 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 

The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight-gloom 
To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 

And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 

Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid. 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat, 

In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet. 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs  and  dusky  loves. 

Her  track,  where'er  the  goddess  roves,    . 

Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame, 
Th'  unconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom's  holy  flame. 

II.  3 

Woods  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep. 
Isles  that  crown  th'  ^gean  deen. 
Fields  that  cool  Ilissus  laves. 
Or  where  Mseander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  labyrinths  creep, 


THOMAS    GRAY  189 

How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute  but  to  the  voice  of  Anguish  ? 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 
Inspiration  breathed  around, 
Every  shade  and  hallowed  fountain 
Murmured  deep  a  solemn  sound; 
Till  the  sad  Nine  in  Greece's  evil  hour 

Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains: 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power, 

And  coward  Vice  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost. 
They  sought,  O  Albion !  next,  thy  sea-encircled  coast. 

III.  1 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale. 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  darling  laid, 

What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  strayed. 
To  him  the  mighty  mother  did  unveil 

Her  awful  face :  the  dauntless  child 

Stretched  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 
'This  pencil  take,'  she  said,  'whose  colours  clear 

Richly  paint  the  vernal  year. 
Thine  too  these  golden  keys,  immortal  boy ! 

This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  Joy; 

Of  Horror  that,  and  thrilling  Fears, 
Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears.' 

III.  2 

Nor  second  he  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph-wings  of  Ecstasy, 

The  secrets  of  th'  abyss  to  spy. 
He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  Place  and  Time: 

The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze. 

Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw;  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light. 

Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car 

Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 

Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race. 
With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding  pace  I 


190  ENGLISH   POETS 

III.   3 

Hark !  his  hands  the  lyre  explore : 
Bright-eyed  Fancy,  hovering  o'er, 
Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 
Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  bum. 

But,  ah,  'tis  heard  no  more ! 
O  lyre  divine,  what  daring  spirit 
Wakes  thee  now?     Though  he  inherit 
Nor  the  pride  nor  ample  pinion 

That  the  Theban  Eagle  bear. 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Through  the  azure  deep  of  air. 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray. 
With  orient  hues  unborrowed  of  the  sun : 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate. 
Beneath  the  good  how  far — but  far  above  the  great. 

THE    BAED 

I.  1 

Tluin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait; 

Though  fanned  by  conquest's  crimson  wing, 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 

Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail. 
Nor  even  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 

Erom  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!' 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scattered  wild  dismay. 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array. 
Stout  Gloucester  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance; 
'To  arms !'  cried  Mortimer,  and  couched  his  quivering  lance. 

I.  2 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood. 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood 


THOMAS    GEAY  191 

(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troiibled  air), 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire 

Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre: 
'Hark  how  each  giant  oak  and  desert  cave 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath! 
O'er  thee,  oh  king!  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 

Eevenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe, 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day. 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

I.  3 

'Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue. 
That  hushed  the  stormy  main; 
Brave  TJrien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed ; 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topped  head : 
On  dreary  Anion's  shore  they  lie. 
Smeared  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale; 
Far,  far  aloof  th'  affrighted  ravens  sail; 

The  famished  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes. 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 
Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries — 

No  more  I  weep :  they  do  not  sleep ! 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 

I  see  them  sit;  they  linger  yet 
Avengers  of  their  native  land : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join. 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 

II.  1 

'Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  woof. 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race; 

Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace: 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night. 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  through  Berkley's  roofs  that  ring. 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king! 


192  ENGLISH   POETS 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 

That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled,  mate, 
From  thee  be  born  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 

The  scourge  of  Heaven :  what  terrors  round  him 
wait! 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 

II.  2 

'Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord  ! 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies : 

No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  Sable  Warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone ;  he  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  bom? 

Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  morn  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While,  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm. 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes. 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm. 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  Whirlwind's  sway. 
That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey. 

II.   3 

Till  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare; 
Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 
Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse  ? 
Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 

And  through   the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their 
way. 
Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame. 

With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murther  fed, 
Kevere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head ! 

Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 
Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread: 


THOMAS    GRAY  193 

The  bristled  Boar  in  infant  gore 
Wallows  beneath  thy  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  th'  accursed  loom, 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom! 

III.  1 

'Edward,  lo!  to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof:  the  thread  is  spun) 

Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 
(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.) 
Stay,  oh  stay!  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn ! 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 

.     They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh !  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height, 
Descending  slow,  their  glittering  skirts  unroll? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ! 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail: 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings,  Britannia's  issue,  hail! 

III.  2 

'Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold, 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 

In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 

In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton  line; 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 

Attempered  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 
What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play! 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear: 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and,  soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  Heaven  her  many-coloured  wings. 

III.  3 

'The  verse  adorn  again 
Fierce  War  and  faithful  Love 
And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  dressed. 
In  buskined  measures  move 


194  ENGLISH   POETS 

Pale  Grief  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 
A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub-choir. 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear. 

That,  lost  in  long  futurity,  expire. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud, 
Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the  orb  of  day? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 

Enough  for  me;  with  joy  I  see 
The  different  doom  our  Fates  assign : 

Be  thine  Despair  and  sceptred  Care; 
To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine.' 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night. 


THE  FATAL  SISTERS 

AN    ODE    FROM    THE    NORSE    TONGUE 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower, 
(Haste,  the  loom  of  hell  prepare,) 
Iron-sleet  of  arrowy  shower 
Hurtles  in  the  darkened  air. 

Glittering  lances  are  the  loom, 
"Where  the  dusky  warp  we  strain, 
Weaving  many  a  soldier's  doom, 
Orkney's  woe,  and  Randver's  bane. 

See  the  grisly  texture  grow, 
('Tis  of  human  entrails  made,) 
And  the  weights,  that  play  below. 
Each  a  gasping  warrior's  head. 

Shafts  for  shuttles,  dipped  in  gore, 
Shoot  the  trembling  cords  along. 
Sword,  that  once  a  monarch  bore, 
Keep  the  tissue  close  and  strong. 


THOMAS   GKAY  195 

Mista  black,  terrific  maid, 
Sangrida,  and  Hilda  see, 
Join  the  wayward  work  to  aid: 
'Tis  the  woof  of  victory. 

Ere  the  ruddy  sun  be  set, 
Pikes  must  shiver,  javelins  sing, 
Blade  with  clattering  buckler  meet, 
Hauberk  crash,  and  helmet  ring. 

(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war.) 
Let  us  go,  and  let  us  fly, 
Where  our  friends  the  conflict  share. 
Where  they  triumph,  where  they  die. 

As  the  paths  of  fate  we  tread, 

Wading  through  th'  ensanguined  field: 

Gondula,  and  Geira,  spread 

O'er  the  youthful  king  your  shield. 

We  the  reins  to  slaughter  give. 
Ours  to  kill,  and  ours  to  spare: 
Spite  of  danger  he  shall  live. 
(Weave  the  crimson  web  of  war.) 

They,  whom  once  the  desert -beach 
Pent  within  its  bleak  domain, 
Soon  their  ample  sway  shall  stretch 
O'er  the  plenty  of  the  plain. 

Low  the  dauntless  earl  is  laid, 
Gored  with  many  a  gaping  wound : 
Fate  demands  a  nobler  head ; 
Soon  a  king  shall  bite  the  ground. 

Long  his  loss  shall  Erin  weep. 
Ne'er  again  his  likeness  see; 
Long  her  strains  in  sorrow  steep, 
Strains  of  immortality ! 


196  ENGLISH   POETS 

Horror  covers  all  the  heath, 
Clouds  of  carnage  blot  the  sun. 
Sisters,  weave  the  web  of  death; 
Sisters,  cease,  the  work  is  done. 

Hail  the  task,  and  hail  the  hands ! 
Songs  of  joy  and  triumph  sing! 
Joy  to  the  victorious  bands; 
Triumph  to  the  younger  king. 

Mortal,  thou  that  hear'st  the  tale. 
Learn  the  tenor  of  our  song. 
Scotland,  through  each  winding  vale 
Far  and  wide  the  notes  prolong. 

Sisters,  hence  with  spurs  of  speed: 
Each  her  thundering  falchion  wield; 
Each  bestride  her  sable  steed. 
Hurry,  hurry  to  the  field. 


ODE    ON   THE   PLEASUEE   ARISING   FROM 
VICISSITUDE 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 

Waves  her  dew-bespangled  wing; 
With  vermeil  cheek  and  whisper  soft 

She  wooes  the  tardy  Spring; 
Till  April  starts,  and  calls  around 
The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground. 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance. 

Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet; 
Forgetful  of  their  wintry  trance. 

The  birds  his  presence  greet; 
But  chief  the  sky-lark  warbles  high 
His  trembling,  thrilling  ecstasy. 
And,  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 
Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 


THOMAS    OKAY  197 

Rise,  my  soul !  on  winf?s  of  fire 

Rise  the  rapturous  choir  among ! 
Hark!   'tis  Nature  strikes  the  lyre, 

And  leads  the  general  song. 

[Four  lines  lacking  in  the  M8.'\ 

Yesterday  the  sullen  year 

Saw  the  snowy  whirlwind  fly; 
Mute  was  the  music  of  the  air, 

The  herd  stood  drooping  by: 
Their  raptures  now  that  wildly  flow 
No  yesterday  nor  morrow  know; 
'Tis  man  alone  that  joy  descries 
With  forward  and  reverted  eyes. 

Smiles  on  past  Misfortune's  brow 

Soft  Reflection's  hand  can  trace. 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  Sorrow  throw 

A  melancholy  grace; 
While  Hope  prolongs  our  happier  hour. 
Or  deepest  shades,  that  dimly  lower 
And  blacken  roimd  our  weary  way, 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still  where  rosy  Pleasure  leads 

See  a  kindred  Grief  pursue ; 
Behind  the  steps  that  Misery  treads, 

Approaching  Comfort  view: 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow 
Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  woe. 
And,  blended,  form  with  artful  strife 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch  that  long  has  tossed 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost 

And  breathe  and  v^alk  again: 
The  meanest  flowret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale. 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  bim  are  opening  Paradise. 


198  ENGLISH   POETS 

Humble  Quiet  builds  her  cell 

Near  the  source  whence  Pleasure  flows; 

She  eyes  the  clear  crystalline  well, 
And  tastes  it  as  it  goes. 

[The  rest  is  laching.'] 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON 
From    THE   VANITY   OF   HUMAN   WISHES 

IN   IMITATION   OF   THE    TENTH    SATIRE   OF    JUVENAL 

In  full-blown  dignity  see  Wolsey  stand, 

Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand : 

To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers  consign; 

Through  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine; 

Turned  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honour  flows ; 

His  smile  alone  security  bestows. 

Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tower; 

Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  power  advances  power; 

Till  conquest  imresisted  ceased  to  please,  _ 

And  rights  submitted  left  him  none  to  seize. 

At  length  his  sovereign  frowns — the  train  of  state 

Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to  hate: 

Where'er  he  turns  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye; 

His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers  fly; 

Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state — 

The  golden  canopy,  the  glittering  plate, 

The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board. 

The  liveried  army,  and  the  menial  lord. 

With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  oppressed. 

He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 

Grief  aids  disease,  remembered  folly  stings. 

And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings. 

When  first  the  college  rolls  receive  his  name. 
The  young  enthusiast  quits  his  ease  for  fame; 
Through  all  his  veins  the  fever  of  renown 
Spreads  from  the  strong  contagion  of  the  gown; 


SAMUEL   JOHNSON  199 

O'er  Bodley's  dome  his  future  labours  spread, 
And  Bacon's  mansion  trembles  o'er  his  head. 
Are  these  thy  views?    Proceed,  illustrious  youth, 
And  virtue  guard  thee  to  the  throne  of  truth ! 
Yet  should  thy  soul  indulge  the  generous  heat, 
Till  captive  science  yields  her  last  retreat; 
Should  reason  guide  thee  with  her  brightest  ray. 
And  pour  on  misty  doubt  resistless  day; 
Should  no  false  kindness  lure  to  loose  delight. 
Nor  praise  relax,  nor  difficulty  fright; 
Should  tempting  novelty  thy  cell  refrain. 
And  sloth  effuse  lier  opiate  fumes  in  vain; 
Should  beauty  blunt  on  fops  her  fatal  dart. 
Nor  claim  the  triumph  of  a  lettered  heart; 
Should  no  disease  thy  torpid  veins  invade, 
Nor  melancholy's  phantoms  haunt  thy  shade; 
Yet  hope  not  life  from  grief  or  danger  free, 
Nor  think  the  doom  of  man  reversed  for  thee : 
Deign  on  the  passing  world  to  turn  thine  eyes, 
And  pause  awhile  from  letters,  to  be  wise; 
There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail. 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail. 
See  nations  slowly  wise,  and  meanly  just. 
To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust! 


On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride, 

How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide. 

A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire, 

No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire; 

O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 

Unconquered  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain. 

No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield — 

War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field; 

Behold  surrounding  kings  their  powers  combine. 

And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign : 

Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms  in  vain; 

'Think  nothing  gained,'  he  cries,  'till  naught  remain! 

On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly, 

And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky !' 

The  march  begins  in  military  state. 

And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait. 


200  ENGLISH   POETS 

Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast, 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of  frost. 
He  comes;  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay  - 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day ! 
The  vanquished  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands. 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands. 
Condemned  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait 
While  ladies  interpose  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error  mend  ? 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ? 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound. 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground? 
His  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand. 
He  left  the  name  at  which  the  world  grew  pale, 
To  point  a  moral  or  adorn  a  tale. 


But  grant,  the  virtues  of  a  temperate  prime 
Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or  crime; 
An  age  that  melts  with  unperceived  decay. 
And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away; 
Whose  peaceful  day  Benevolence  endears. 
Whose  night  congratulating  Conscience  cheers; 
The  general  favourite  as  the  general  friend : 
Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its  end? 
Yet  even  on  this  her  load  Misfortune  flings, 
To  press  the  weary  minutes'  flagging  wings ; 
New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns, 
A  sister  sickens,  or  a  daughter  mourns. 
Now  kindred  Merit  fills  the  sable  bier. 
Now  lacerated  Friendship  claims  a  tear. 
Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay, 
Still  drops  some  joy  from  withering  life  away; 
New  forms  arise,  and  different  views  engage. 
Superfluous  lags  the  veteran  on  the  stage. 
Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release. 
And  bids  afflicted  worth  retire  to  peace. 


Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear  their  objects  find  i 
Must  dull  Suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind? 


KICIIARD    JAGO  201 

Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate. 
Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate? 
Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies? — 
Enquirer,  cease;  petitions  yet  remain, 
Which  Heaven  may  hear;  nor  deem  religion  vain. 
Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice. 
But  leave  to  Heaven  the  measure  and  the  choice; 
Safe  in  His  power,  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer. 
Implore  His  aid,  in  His  decisions  rest, 
Secure,  whate'er  He  gives.  He  gives  the  best. 
Yet  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 
And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires, 
Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a  healthful  mind, 
Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resigned; 
For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill; 
For  patience,  sovereign  o'er  transmuted  ill; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat, 
.  Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  retreat :  _ 
These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heaven  ordain; 
These  goods  He  grants,  who  grants  the  power  to  gain; 
With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind, 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 


RICHARD   JAGO 
From    THE    GOLDFINCHES 

All  in  a  garden,  on  a  currant  bush. 

With  wondrous  art  they  built  their  airy  seat; 

In  the  next  orchard  lived  a  friendly  thrush 
Nor  distant  far  a  woodlark's  soft  retreat. 

Here  blessed  with  ease,  and  in  each  other  blessed, 

With  early  songs  they  waked  the  neighbouring  groves, 

Till  time  matured  their  joys,  and  crowned  their  nest 
With  infant  pledges  of  their  faithful  loves. 


202  ENGLISH    POETS 

And  now  what  transport  glowed  in  either's  eye! 

What  equal  fondness  dealt  th'  allotted  food! 
What  joy  each  other's  likeness  to  descry; 

And  future  sonnets  in  the  chirping  brood ! 

But  ah!  what  earthly  happiness  can  last? 

How  does  the  fairest  purpose  often  fail? 
A  truant  schoolboy's  wantonness  could  blast 

Their  flattering  hopes,  and  leave  them  both  to  waiL 

The  most  ungentle  of  his  tribe  was  he, 

No  generous  precept  ever  touched  his  heart; 

With  concord  false,  and  hideous  prosody. 

He  scrawled  his  task,  and  blundered  o'er  his  part. 

On  mischief  bent,  he  marked,  with  ravenous  eyes, 
Where  wrapped  in  down  the  callow  songsters  lay; 

Then  rushing,  rudely  seized  the  glittering  prize. 
And  bore  it  in  his  impious  hands  away! 

But  how  shall  I  describe,  in  numbers  rude, 
The  pangs  for  poor  Chrysomitris  decreed. 

When  from  her  secret  stand  aghast  she  viewed 
The  cruel  spoiler  perpetrate  the  deed? 

'O  grief  of  griefs!'  with  shrieking  voice  she  cried, 
'What  sight  is  this  that  I  have  lived  to  see! 

O !  that  I  had  in  youth's  fair  season  died, 

Erom  love's  false  joys  and  bitter  sorrows  free.' 


JOHN    DALTON 

From    A   DESCEIPTIYE    POEM 

.     .     .     .     To  nature's  pride, 
Sweet  Keswick's  vale,  the  Muse  will  guide: 
The  Muse  who  trod  th'  enchanted  ground. 
Who  sailed  the  wondrous  lake  around. 
With  you  will  haste  once  more  to  hail 
The  beauteous  brook  of  Borrodale. 


JOHN   D ALTON  203 

Let  other  streams  rejoice  to  roar 
Down  the  rough  rocks  of  dread  Lodore, 
Rush  raving  on  with  boisterous  sweep, 
And  foaming  rend  the  frighted  deep; 
Thy  gentle  genius  shrinks  away 
From  such  a  rude  unequal  fray ; 
Through  thine  own  native  dale  where  rise 
Tremendous  rocks  amid  the  skies, 
Thy  waves  with  patience  slowly  wind, 
Till  they  the  smoothest  channel  find, 
Soften  the  horrors  of  the  scene. 
And  through  confusion  flow  serene. 
Horrors  like  these  at  first  alarm, 
But  soon  with  savage  grandeur  charm, 
And  raise  to  noblest  thought  the  mind : 
Thus  by  the  fall,  Lodore,  reclined. 
The  craggy  cliff,  impendent  wood, 
Whose  shadows  mix  o'er  half  the  flood, 
The  gloomy  clouds  which  solemn  sail, 
Scarce  lifted  by  the  languid  gale. 

Channels  by  rocky  torrents  torn. 
Rocks  to  the  lake  in  thunder  borne, 
Or  such  as  o'er  our  heads  appear. 
Suspended  in  their  mid-career. 
To  start  again  at  his  command 
Who  rules  fire,  water,  air,  and  land, 
I  view  with  wonder  and  delight, 
A  pleasing,  though  an  awful  sight. 

And  last,  to  fix  our  wandering  eyes. 
Thy  roofs,  O  Keswick,  brighter  rise 
The  lake  and  lofty  hills  between, 
Where  Giant  Skiddow  shuts  the  scene. 

Supreme  of  mountains,  Skiddow,  hail ! 
To  whom  all  Britain  sinks  a  vale ! 
Lo,  his  imperial  brow  I  see 
From  foul  usurping  vapours  free! 
'Twere  glorious  now  his  side  to  climb. 
Boldly  to  scale  his  top  sublime. 
And  thence — My  Muse,  these  flights  forbear, 
Nor  with  wild  raptures  tire  the  fair. 


204  ENGLISH   POETS 

JANE    ELLIOT 
THE    FLOWEES    OF    THE    FOREST 

I've  heard  them  lilting,  at  our  ewe-milking. 
Lasses  a-lilting,  before  the  dawn  of  day; 
But  now  they  are  moaning,  on  ilka  green  loaning; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  bughts  in  the  morning  nae  blythe  lads  are  scorning; 
The  lasses  are  lanely,  and  dowie,  and  wae; 
Nae  daffing,  nae  gabbing,  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 
Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin,  and  hies  her  away. 

In  hairst,  at  the  shearing,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 
The  bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled  and  gray; 
At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  swankies  are  roaming 
'Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play; 
But  ilk  ane  sits  eerie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for  the  order  sent  our  lads  to  the  Border! 
The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day; 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  that  fought  aye  the  foremost, 
The  prime  of  our  land,  lie  cauld  in  the  clay. 

We'll  hear  nae  more  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking, 
Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning, 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 


CHAKLES    CHURCHILL  205 

CHARLES    CHURCHILL 

From    THE    ROSCIAD 

[QuiN,  THE  Actor] 

His  eyes,  in  gloomy  socket  taught  to  roll, 
Proclaimed  the  sullen  habit  of  his  soul. 
Heavy  and  phlegmatic  he  trod  the  stage, 
Too  proud  for  tenderness,  too  dull  for  rage. 
When  Hector's  lovely  widow  shines  in  tears. 
Or  Rowe's  gay  rake  dependent  virtue  jeers, 
With  the  same  cast  of  features  he  is  seen 
To  chide  the  libertine  and  court  the  queen. 
From  the  tame  scene  which  without  passion  flows. 
With  just  desert  his  reputation  rose. 
Nor  less  he  pleased  when,  on  some  surly  plan, 
He  was  at  once  the  actor  and  the  man. 
In  Brute  he  shone  unequalled:  all  agree 
Garrick's  not  half  so  great  a  brute  as  he. 
When  Cato's  laboured  scenes  are  brought  to  view. 
With  equal  praise  the  actor  laboured  too; 
For  still  you'll  find,  trace  passions  to  their  root. 
Small  difference  'twixt  the  stoic  and  the -brute. 
In  fancied  scenes,  as  in  life's  real  plan, 
He  could  not  for  a  moment  sink  the  man. 
In  whate'er  cast  his  character  was  laid. 
Self  still,  like  oil,  upon  the  surface  played. 
Nature,  in  spite  of  all  his  skill,  crept  in: 
Horatio,  Dorax,  Falstaff — still  'twas  Quin. 

From    THE    GHOST 
[Dr.  Johnson] 

Pomposo,  insolent  and  loud, 
Vain  idol  of  a  scribbling  crowd. 
Whose  very  name  inspires  an  awe. 
Whose  every  word  is  sense  and  law. 
For  what  his  greatness  hath  decreed. 
Like  laws  of  Persia  and  of  Mede, 


206  ENGLISH   POETS 

Sacred  through  all  the  realm  of  wit, 

Must  never  of  repeal  admit; 

Who,  cursing  flattery,  is  the  tool 

Of  every  fawning,  flattering  fool; 

Who  wit  with  jealous  eye  surveys, 

And  sickens  at  another's  praise; 

Who,  proudly  seized  of  learning's  throne. 

Now  damns  all  learning  but  his  own; 

Who  scorns  those  common  wares  to  trade  in. 

Reasoning,  convincing,  and  persuading, 

But  makes  each  sentence  current  pass 

With  'puppy,'  'coxcomb,'  'scoundrel,'  'ass,' 

For  'tis  with  him  a  certain  rule, 

The  folly's  proved  when  he  calls  'fool'; 

Who,  to  increase  his  native  strength, 

Draws  words  six  syllables  in  length. 

With  which,  assisted  with  a  frown 

By  way  of  club,  he  knocks  us  down. 


JAMES    MACPHERSON 

["TRANSLATIONS"   FROM    "OSSIAN,    THE    SON 
,.v'OF   FINGAL"] 

From   FINGAL,   AN   EPIC   POEM 

[Fingal's  Romantic  Generosity  Toward  His  Captive 
Enemy] 

'King  of  Lochlin,'  said  Fingal,  'thy  blood  flows  in  the 

veins  of  thy  foe.     Our  fathers  met  in  battle,  because  they 

j;     loved  the  strife  of  spears.    But  often  did  they  feast  in  the 

I     hall,  and  send  round  the  joy  of  the  shell.     Let  thy  face 

y    brighten  with  gladness,  and  thine  ear  delight  in  the  harp. 

Dreadful  as  the  storm  of  thine  ocean,  thou  hast  poured  thy 

.  '   valour  forth;  thy  voice  has  been  like  the  voice  of  thou- 

~    sands  when  they  engage  in  war.     Raise,  to-morrow,  raise 

^-    thy  white  sails  to  the  wind,  thou  brother  of  Agandecca ! 

^   Bright  as  the  beam  of  noon,  she  comes  on  my  mournful 


H-^ 


JAMES    MACPHEESON  207 

soul.  I  have  seen  thy  tears  for  the  fair  one.  I  spared 
thee  in  the  halls  of  Starno,  when  my  sword  was  red  with 
slausihter,  when  my  eye  was  full  of  tears  for  the  maid. 
Or  dost  thou  choose  the  fight?  The  combat  which  thy 
fathers  gave  to  Trenmor  is  thine !  that  thou  mayest  depart 
renowned,  like  the  sun  setting  in  the  west!' 

'King  of  the  race  of  Morven!'  said  the  chief  of  resound- 
ing Lochlin,  'never  will  Swaran  fight  with  thee,  first  of  a 
thousand  heroes !  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  halls  of  Starno : 
few  were  thy  years  beyond  my  own.  When  shall  I,  I 
said  to  my  soul,  lift  the  spear  like  the  noble  Fingal?  We 
have  fought  heretofore,  O  warrior,  on  the  side  of  the 
shaggy  Maimer;  after  my  waves  had  carried  me  to  thy 
halls,  and  the  feast  of  a  thousand  shells  was  spread.  Let 
the  bards  send  his  name  who  overcame  to  future  years, 
for  noble  was  the  strife  of  Malmour!  But  many  of  the 
ships  of  Lochlin  have  lost  their  youths  on  Lena.  Take 
these,  thou  king  of  Morven,  and  be  the  friend  of  Swaran ! 
When  thy  sons  shall  come  to  Gonnal,  the  feast  of  shells 
shall  be  spread,  and  the  combat  offered  on  the  vale.' 

'Nor  ship,'  replied  the  king,  'shall  Fingal  take,  nor  land 
of  many  hills.  The  desert  is  enough  to  me,  with  all  its 
deer  and  woods.  Rise  on  thy  waves  again,  thou  noble 
friend  of  Agandecca !  Spread  thy  white  sails  to  the  beam 
of  the  morning;  return  to  the  echoing  hills  of  Gormal.' 
'Blest  be  thy  soul,  thou  king  of  shells,'  said  Swaran  of  the 
dark-brown  shield.  'In  peace  thou  art  the  gale  of  spring. 
In  war,  the  mountain-storm.  Take  now  my  hand  in 
friendship,  king  of  echoing  Selma !  Let  thy  bards  mourn 
those  who  fell.  Let  Erin  give  the  sons  of  Lochlin  to 
earth.  Raise  high  the  mossy  stones  of  their  fame:  that 
the  children  of  the  north  hereafter  may  behold  the  place 
where  their  fathers  fought.  The  hunter  may  say,  when  he 
leans  on  a  mossy  tomb,  here  Fingal  and  Swaran  fought, 
the  heroes  of  other  years.  Thus  hereafter  shall  he  say, 
and  our  fame  shall  last  for  ever!' 

'Swaran,'  said  the  king  of  hills,  'to-day  our  fame  is 
greatest.  We  shall  pass  away  like  a  dream.  No  sound 
will  remain  in  our  fields  of  war.  Our  tombs  will  be  lost 
in  the  heath.  The  hunter  shall  not  know  the  place  of  our 
rest.  Our  names  may  be  heard  in  song.  What  avails  it 
when  our  strength  hath  ceased?     O   Ossian,  Carril,  and 


208  ENGLISH   POETS 

Ullin !  you  know  of  heroes  that  are  no  more.  Give  us  the 
song  of  other  years.  Let  the  night  pass  away  on  the  sound, 
and  morning  return  with  joy.' 

We  gave  the  song  to  the  kings.  A  hundred  harps  mixed 
their  sound  with  our  voice.  The  face  of  Swaran  bright- 
ened, like  the  full  moon  of  heaven :  when  the  clouds 
vanish  away,  and  leave  her  calm  and  broad  in  the  midst 
of  the  sky. 


Erom    the    SONGS    OF    SELMA 
[Colma's  Lament] 

It  is  night;  I  am  alone,  forlorn  on  the  hill  of  storms. 
The  wind  is  heard  in  the  mountain.  The  torrent  pours 
down  the  rock.  No  hut  receives  me  from  the  rain,  for- 
lorn on  the  hill  of  winds. 

Rise,  moon !  from  behind  thy  clouds.  Stars  of  the  night, 
arise!  Lead  me,  some  light,  to  the  place  where  my  love 
rests  from  the  chase  alone!  his  bow  near  him,  unstrung; 
his  dogs  panting  around  him.  But  here  I  must  sit  alone, 
by  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The  stream  and  the 
wind  roar  aloud.  I  hear  not  the  voice  of  my  love!  Why 
delays  my  Salgar,  why  the  chief  of  the  hill,  his  promise? 
Here  is  the  rock,  and  here  the  tree!  here  is  the  roaring 
stream !  Thou  didst  promise  with  night  to  be  here.  Ah ! 
whither  is  my  Salgar  gone?  With  thee  I  would  ily,  from 
my  father;  with  thee,  from  my  brother  of  pride.  Our  race 
have  long  been  foes;  we  are  not  foes,  O  Salgar! 

Cease  a  little  while,  O  wind !  stream,  be  thou  silent  a 
while!  let  my  voice  be  heard  around.  Let  my  wanderer 
hear  me!  Salgar!  it  is  Colma  who  calls.  Here  is  the 
tree  and  the  rock.  Salgar,  my  love!  I  am  here.  Why 
delayest  thou  thy  coming  ?  Lo !  the  calm  moon  comes 
forth.  The  flood  is  bright  in  the  vale.  The  rocks  are  grey 
on  the  steep.  I  see  him  not  on  the  brow.  His  dogs  come 
not  before  him,  with  tidings  of  his  near  approach.  Here 
I  must  sit  alone! 

Who  lie  on  the  heath  beside  me  ?  Are  they  my  love  and 
my  brother?  Speak  to  me,  O  my  friends!  To  Colma  they 
give  no  reply.  Speak  to  me :  I  am  alone !  My  soul  is 
tormented  with  fears !     Ah,  they  are  dead !     Their  swords 


JAMES    MACPHERSON  209 

are  red  from  the  fight.  O  my  brother!  my  brother!  why 
hast  thou  slain  my  Salgar?  Why,  O  Salgar!  hast  thou 
slain  my  brother  ?  Dear  were  ye  both  to  me !  what  shall 
I  say  in  your  praise?  Thou  wert  fair  on  the  hill  among 
thousands!  he  was  terrible  in  fight.  Speak  to  me;  hear 
my  voice;  hear  me,  sons  of  my  love!  They  are  silent; 
silent  for  ever !  Cold,  cold  are  their  breasts  of  clay.  Oh ! 
from  the  rock  on  the  hill ;  from  the  top  of  the  windy 
steep,  speak,  ye  ghosts  of  the  dead!  speak,  I  will  not  be 
afraid!  Whither  are  ye  gone  to  rest?  In  what  cave  of 
the  hill  shall  I  find  the  departed  ?  No  feeble  voice  is  on 
the  gale ;  no  answer  half -drowned  in  the  storm ! 

I  sit  in  my  grief !  I  wait  for  morning  in  my  tears ! 
Rear  the  tomb,  ye  friends  of  the  dead.  Close  it  not  till 
Colma  come.  My  life  flies  away  like  a  dream !  why  should 
I  stay  behind  ?  Here  shall  I  rest  with  my  friends,  by  the 
stream  of  the  sounding  rock.  When  night  comes  on  the 
hill;  when  the  loud  winds  arise;  my  ghost  shall  stand  in 
the  blast,  and  mourn  the  death  of  my  friends.  The  hunter 
shall  hear  from  his  booth.  He  shall  fear,  but  love  my 
voice !  For  sweet  shall  my  voice  be  for  my  friends : 
pleasant  were  her  friends  to  Colma ! 

[The  Last  Words  of  Ossian] 

Such  were  the  words  of  the  bards  in  the  days  of  song; 
when  the  king  heard  the  music  of  harps,  the  tales  of  other 
times !  The  chiefs  gathered  from  all  their  hills  and 
heard  the  lovely  sound.  They  praised  the  voice  of  Cona 
[Ossian],  the  first  among  a  thousand  bards!  But  age  is 
now  on  my  tongue;  my  soul  has  failed!  I  hear  at  times 
the  ghosts  of  bards,  and  learn  their  pleasant  song.  But 
memory  fails  on  my  mind.  I  hear  the  call  of  years! 
They  say  as  they  pass  along,  why  does  Ossian  sing  ?  Soon 
shall  he  lie  in  the  narrow  house,  and  no  bard  shall  raise 
his  fame!  Roll  on,  ye  dark-brown  years;  ye  bring  no  joy 
on  your  course!  Let  the  tomb  open  to  Ossian,  for  his 
strength  has  failed.  The  sons  of  song  are  gone  to  rest. 
My  voice  remains,  like  a  blast  that  roars  lonely  on  a 
sea-surrounded  rock,  after  the  winds  are  laid.  The  dark 
moss  whistles  there;  the  distant  mariner  sees  the  waving 
trees ! 


■210  ENGLISH   POETS 

CHRISTOPHER    SMART 
From   A   SONG   TO   DAVID 

Strong  is  the  lion — like  a  coal 
His  eyeball,  like  a  bastion's  mole 

His  chest  against  the  foes; 
Strong  the  gier-eagle  on  his  sail ; 
Strong  against  tide  th'  enormous  whale 

Emerges  as  he  goes: 

But  stronger  still,  in  earth  and  air 
And  in  the  sea,  the  man  of  prayer. 

And  far  beneath  the  tide, 
And  in  the  seat  to  faith  assigned, 
Where  ask  is  have,  where  seek  is  find. 

Where  knock  is  open  wide. 

Beauteous  the  fleet  before  the  gale; 
Beauteous  the  multitudes  in  mail, 

Ranked  arms  and  crested  heads; 
Beauteous  the  garden's  umbrage  mild. 
Walk,  water,  meditated  wild. 

And  all  the  bloomy  beds; 

Beauteous  the  moon  full  on  the  lawn ; 
And  beauteous  when  the  veil's  withdrawn 

The  virgin  to  her  spouse; 
Beauteous  the  temple,  decked  and  filled, 
When  to  the  heaven  of  heavens  they  build 

Their  heart-directed  vows : 

Beauteous,  yea  beauteous  more  than  these, 
The  shepherd  King  upon  his  knees, 

For  his  momentous  trust; 
With  wish  of  infinite  conceit 
For  man,  beast,  mute,  the  small  and  great. 

And  prostrate  dust  to  dust. 


CHEISTOPHER    SMART  211 

Precious  the  bounteous  widow's  mite; 
And  precious,  for  extreme  delight, 

The  largess  from  the  churl; 
Precious  the  ruby's  blushing  blaze, 
And  Alba's  blest  imperial  rays. 

And  pure  cerulean  pearl; 

Precious  the  penitential  tear; 
And  precious  is  the  sigh  sincere, 

Acceptable  to  God; 
And  precious  are  the  winning  flowers, 
In  gladsome  Israel's  feast  of  bowers. 

Bound  on  the  hallowed  sod : 

More  precious  that  diviner  part 

Of  David,  even  the  Lord's  own  heart. 

Great,  beautiful,  and  new; 
In  all  things  where  it  was  intent, 
In  all  extremes,  in  each  event, 

Proof — answering  true  to  true. 

Glorious  the  sun  in  mid  career; 
Glorious  th'  assembled  fires  appear ; 

Glorious  the  comet's  train; 
Glorious  the  trumpet  and  alarm ; 
Glorious  th'  Almighty's  stretched-out  arm; 

Glorious  th'  enraptured  main; 

Glorious  the  northern  lights  a-stream ; 
Glorious  the  song,  when  God's  the  theme; 

Glorious  the  thunder's  roar; 
Glorious,  Hosannah  from  the  den; 
Glorious  the  catholic  amen; 

Glorious  the  martyr's  gore : 

Glorious,  more  glorious,  is  the  crown 
Of  Him  that  broucht  salvation  down, 

By  meekness  called  Thy  son ; 
Thou  that  stupendous  truth  believed. 
And  now  the  matchless  deed's  achieved, 

Determined,  dared,  and  done. 


212  ENGLISH   POETS 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH 

From   THE    TEAYELLER;   OE,   A  PEOSPECT   OF 
SOCIETY 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store, 

Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er, 

Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 

Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still: 

Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise, 

Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to  man  supplies; 

Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 

To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small, 

And  oft  I  wish  amidst  the  scene  to  find 

Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consigned. 

Where  my  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest, 

May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below. 

Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know? 


To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease. 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please. 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir. 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire, 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew. 
And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew! 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still. 
But  mocked  all  tune  and  marred  the  dancer's  skill. 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages:  dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze; 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore, 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burthen  of  threescore. 

So  blessed  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  disj)lay; 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITH  213 

Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear, 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here: 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains. 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains, 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand. 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays. 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise; 
They  pleased,  are  pleased;  they  give,  to  get,  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blessed,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies. 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise ; 
For  praise,  too  dearly  loved  or  warmly  sought. 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought. 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblessed, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  Ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art, 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart; 
Here  Vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace, 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper-lace; 
Here  beggar  Pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer, 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year: 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws. 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 


Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind. 
Why  have  I  strayed  from  pleasure  and  repose,  ^. 

To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  ?  •,■* 

In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign, 
^Though  tyrant  kings  or  tyrant  laws  restrain. 
How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure  I 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consigned,^ 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find:       -   ■.       >• 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy. 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy; 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel,  *T  '    / 

Luke's  iron  crown,  and  Damiens'  bed  of  steel,  l^-y^ 

To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known. 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience  all  our  own. 


214  ENGLISH  POETS 


THE   DESEETED   VILLAGE 

Sweet  Auburn  !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain; 

Where  health  and  plenty  cheered  the  labouring  swain. 

Where  smiling  Spring  its  earliest  visit  paid, 

And  parting  summer's  lingering  blooms  delayed: 

Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 

Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please, 

How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green, 

Where  humble  happiness  endeared  each  scene ! 

How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm. 

The  sheltered  cot,  the  cultivated  farm, 

The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill, 

The  decent  church  that  topped  the  neighbouring  hill. 

The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade 

For  talking  age  and  whispering  lovers  made! 

How  often  have  I  blest  the  coming  day, 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free. 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree. 

While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade. 

The  young  contending  as  the  old  surveyed ; 

And  many  a  gambol  frolicked  o'er  the  ground, 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round. 

And  still,  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired. 

Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired; 

The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down ; 

The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 

While  secret  laughter  tittered  round  the  place; 

The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love, 

The  matron's  glance  that  would  those  looks  reprove : 

These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village!  sports  like  these, 

With  sweet  succession,  taught  even  toil  to  please : 

These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence  shed: 

These  were  thy  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled. 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen, 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 
One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain. 


OLIVEK   GOLDSMITH  215 

No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 

But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 

Along  the  glades,  a  solitary  guest, 

The  hollow  sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 

Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies. 

And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries; 

Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all, 

And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mouldering  wall; 

And  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand. 

Far,  far  away  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hastening  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay: 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade; 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made: 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride,      i 
When  once  destroyed,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began, 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintained  its  man; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store. 
Just  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more : 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health; 
And  his  best  riches,  fgnorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  altered;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land  and  dispossess  the  swain; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scattered  hamlets  rose. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbrous  pomp  repose. 
And  every  want  to  opulence  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
These  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  asked  but  little  room, 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful  scene. 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brightened  all  the  green ; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks  and  ruined  grounds. 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew. 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train, 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 


216  ENGLISH   POETS 

In  all  my  wanderings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close, 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose: 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learned  skill. 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw. 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw; 
And,  as  an  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past, 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline, 
Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  happy  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these 
A  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 
For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state. 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate; 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end. 
Angels  around  befriending  Virtue's  friend; 
Bends  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay. 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 
His  Heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past! 

Sweet  was  the  sound,  when  oft  at  evening's  close 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose. 
There,  as  I  passed  with  careless  steps  and  slow,      -    ^ 
The  mingling  notes  came  softened  from  below;      t.K^''.\ 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  lowed  to  meet  their  young. 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school. 
The  watch-dog's  voice  that  bayed  the  whispering  wind. 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind; — 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And  filled  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 


OLIVEK    GOLDSMITH  217 

But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail, 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale, 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  foot-way  tread, 
For  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widowed,  solitary  thing. 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring: 
She,  wretched  matron,  forced  in  age,  for  bread. 
To  strip  the  brook  with  niantling  cresses  spread. 
To  pick  her  wintry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
jTo  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  mom; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train, 
JThe  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain. 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled. 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place; 
Unpractised  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power, 
By  doctrines  fashioned  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learned  to  prize. 
More  skilled  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train ; 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain: 
The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruined  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 
Claimed  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allowed; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay. 
Sate  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away. 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shouldered  his  crutch  and  showed  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow. 
And  quite  forget  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 
His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride. 
And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  Virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watched  and  wept,  he  prayed  and  felt,  for  all; 


218  ENGLISH   POETS 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies. 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain  by  turns  dismayed. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.    At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorned  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevailed  with  double  sway. 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remained  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 
Even  children  followed  with  endearing  wile. 
And  plucked  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  expressed; 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distressed: 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  Heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,   in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to   rule. 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school.  ^    > 

A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stem  to  view;  ju"^^ 

I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew;  \  / 

Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  days'  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laughed  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned. 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault : 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew; 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too ; 


OLIVER    CxOLDSMITH  219 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge; 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  even  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew. 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 

But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed  is  forgot. 
Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high, 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye, 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts  inspired. 
Where  graybeard  mirth  and  smiling  toil  retired. 
Where  village  statesmen  talked  with  looks  profound, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round. 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place: 
The  whitewashed  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor. 
The  varnished  clock  that  clicked  behind  the  door: 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 
The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chilled  the  day, 
With  aspen  boughs  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay; 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glistened  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendours  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tottering  mansion  from  its  fall  ? 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart. 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale. 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear, 
Relax  his  ponderous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  fovmd 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  pressed. 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 


220  ENGLISH  POETS 

Yes !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart,       /  \\j^^ 

One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art.  t    h*...^^ 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  Nature  has  its  play. 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  first-born  sway; 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade, 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  arrayed — 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain. 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain; 
And,  e'en  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks  if  this  be  joy. 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joys  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  an  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore. 
And  shouting  Folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains !     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  products  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  tip  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extended  bounds, 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage,  and  hounds : 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robbed  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  their  growth; 
His  seat,  w^here  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green: 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies. 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies; 
While  thus  the  land  adorned  for  pleasure  all 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female  unadorned  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrowed  charm  that  dress  supplies. 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes; 
But  when  those  charms  are  passed,  for  charms  are  frail. 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail. 


OLIVER    GOLDSMITPI  221 

She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless. 

In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 

Thus  fares  the  land  by  luxury  betrayed : 

In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first   arrayed. 

But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 

Its  vistas  strike,   its  palaces  surprise; 

While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land 

The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band, 

And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to   save. 

The  country  blooms — a  garden  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,   ah !   where,   shall  poverty  reside. 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride? 
If  to  some  common's  fenceless  limits  strayed, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide. 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — what  waits  him  there? 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,   and  thin  mankind; 
To  see  those  joys  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade. 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps  display. 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign 
Here,  richly  decked,  admits  the  gorgeous  train : 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowds  the  blazing  square. 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts? — Ah,  turn  thine  eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shivering  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  blessed. 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distressed; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn: 
Now  lost  to  all;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,  pinched  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the  shower, 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour. 


222  ENGLISH   POETS 

When  idly  first,  ambitious  of  the  town, 

She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet  Auburn, — thine,  the  loveliest  train, — 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain? 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led. 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread! 

Ah,  no!     To  distant  climes,   a  dreary  scene, 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go, 
Where  wild  Altama  murmurs  to  their  woe. 
Far  different  there  from  all  that  charmed  before 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  dart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day; 
Tho§e  matted  woods,  where  birds  forget  to  sing. 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling; 
Those  poisonous  fields  with  rank  luxuriance  crowned. 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around; 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey. 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they; 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies,  _ 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Ear  different  these  from  every  former  scene, 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green. 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove. 
That  only  sheltered  thefts  of  harmless  love. 

Good  Heaven!  what  sorrows  gloomed  that  parting  day, 
That  called  them  from  their  native  walks  away; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  passed, 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  looked  their  last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wished  in  vain 
Eor  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main. 
And  shuddering  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Eetumed  and  wept,  and  still  returned  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wished  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears. 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 


OLIVEK    GOLDSMITH  223 

Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms, 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes. 
And  blest  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose. 
And  kissed  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a  tear. 
And  clasped  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear. 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  luxury!  thou  cursed  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diifuse  their  pleasure  only  to  destroy! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown. 
Boast  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own. 
At  every  draught  more  large  and  large  they  grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  imwieldy  woe; 
Till  sapped  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down,  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation   is  begun, 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  Virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail. 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,   a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strand. 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connixbial  Tenderness,  ar£  there; 
And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou,  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid, 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade; 
LTnfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame; 
Dear  charming   nymph,   neglected   and   decried. 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe,  / 

That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so;( 
Thou  guide  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel, 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well! 
Farewell,  and  oh !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambamarca's  side, 


224  ENGLISH   POETS 

Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow. 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow. 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  th'  inclement  clime; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possessed, 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blessed ; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay. 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  laboured  more  away; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy. 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky. 


Erom    retaliation 

Here  lies  our  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such 
We  scarcely  can  praise  it  or  blame  it  too  much; 
Who,  born  for  the  universe,  narrowed  his  mind, 
And  to  party  gave  up  what  was  meant  for  mankind ; 
Though  fraught  with  all  learning,  yet  straining  his  throat 
To  persuade  Tommy  Townshend  to  lend  him  a  vote; 
Who,  too  deep  for  his  hearers,  still  went  on  refining, 
And  thought' of  convincing,  while  they  thought  of  dining; 
Though  equal  to  all  things,  for  all  things  unfit — 
Too  nice  for  a  statesman,  too  proud  for  a  wit,  \J 

Eor  a  patriot  too  cool,  for  a  drudge  disobedient,  ^ 

And  too  fond  of  the  right  to  pursue  the  expedient: 
In  short,  'twas  his  fate,  unemployed  or  in  place,  sir, 
To  eat  mutton  cold  and  cut  blocks  with  a  razor. 


Here  Cumberland  lies,  having  acted  his  parts, 

The  Terence  of  England,  the  mender  of  hearts; 

A  flattering  painter,  who  made  it  his  care 

To  draw  men  as  they  ought  to  be,  not  as  they  are: 

His  gallants  are  all  faultles's,  his  women  divine. 

And  Comedy  wonders  at  being  so  fine — 

Like  a  tragedy-queen  he  has  dizened  her  out, 

Or  rather  like  Tragedy  giving  a  rout; 

His  fools  have  their  follies  so  lost  in  a  crowd 

Of  virtues  and  feelings  that  folly  grows  proud; 


K 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH  225 

And  coxcombs,  alike  in  their  failings  alone, 
Adopting  his  portraits,  are  pleased  with  their  own. 
Say,  where  has  our  poet  this  malady  caught, 
Or  wherefore  his  characters  thus  without  fault? 
Say,  was  it  that,  vainly  directing  his  view 
To  find  out  men's  virtues,  and  finding  them  few. 
Quite  sick  of  pursuing  each  troublesome  elf. 
He  grew  lazy  at  last  and  drew  from  himself? 


Here  lies  David  Garrick:  describe  me,  who  can, 
An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man; 
As  an  actor,  confessed  without  rival  to  shine; 
As  a  wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line. 
Yet  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart. 
The  man  had  his  failings,  a  dupe  to  his  art: 
Like  an  ill-judging  beauty  his  colours  he  spread, 
And  beplastered  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red; 
On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  aifecting — 
'Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 
With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 
He  turned  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a  day: 
Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick; 
He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a  huntsman  his  pack. 
For  he  knew  when  he  pleased  he  could  whistle  them 

back. 
Of  praise  a  mere  glutton,  he  swallowed  what  came. 
And  the  puff  of  a  dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame; 
Till,  his  relish  grown  callous,  almost  to  disease. 
Who  peppered  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 
But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind: 
If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind; 
Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave, 
What  a  commerce  was  yours  while  you  got  and  you 

gave! 
How  did  Grub  Street  re-echo  the  shouts  that  you  raised. 
While  he  was  be-Rosciused  and  you  were  bepraised ! 
But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies 
To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies! 
Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill 
Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will; 


226  ENGLISH   POETS 

Old  Shakespeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love. 
And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above. 


Here  Eeynolds  is  laid,  and,  to  tell  you  my  mind. 
He  has  not  left  a  better  or  wiser  behind. 
His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand; 
His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland; 
Still  born  to  improve  lis  in  every  part — 
His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 
To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering. 
When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hear- 
ing; 
When  they  talked  of  their  Eaphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff, 
He  shifted  his  trumpet,  and  only  took  snuff. 


JAMES    BEATTIE 

From   THE  MINSTEEL;   OE,  THE   PEOGEESS 
OF    GENIUS 

Fret  not  thyself,  thou  glittering  child  of  pride. 
That  a  ptor  villager  inspires  my  strain ; 
With  thee  let  pageantry  and  power  abide : 
The  gentle  Muses  haunt  the  sylvan  reign; 
Where  through  wild  groves  at  eve  the  lonely  swain 
Enraptured  roams,  to  gaze  on  Nature's  charms. 
They  hate  the  sensual,  and  scorn  the  vain, 
The  parasite  their  influence  never  warms. 
Nor  him  whose  sordid  soul  the  love  of  gold  alarms. 

Though  richest  hues  the  peacock's  plumes  adorn, 
Yet  horror  screams  from  his  discordant  throat. 
Eise,  sons  of  harmony,  and  hail  the  morn, 
While  warbling  larks  on  russet  pinions  float; 
Or  seek  at  noon  the  woodland  scene  remote. 
Where  the  grey  linnets  carol  from  the  hill: 
O  let  them  ne'er,  with  artificial  note, 


JAMES   BEATTIE  227 

To  please  a  tyrant,  strain  the  little  bill, 
But  sing  what  Heaven  inspires,  and  wander  where  they 
will! 


And  yet  poor  Edwin  was  no  vulgar  boy. 
Deep  thought  oft  seemed  to  fix  his  infant  eye. 
Dainties  he  heeded  not,  nor  gaud,  nor  toy, 
Save  one  short  pipe  of  rudest  minstrelsy; 
Silent  when  glad;  aifectionate,  though  shy; 
And  now  his  look  was  most  demurely  sad; 
And  now  he  laughed  aloud,  yet  none  knew  why. 
The  neighbours  stared  and  sighed,  yet  blessed  the  lad; 
Some  deemed  him  wondrous  wise,  and  some  believed  him 
mad. 


In  truth,  he  was  a  strange  and  wayward  wight, 
Fond  of  each  gentle  and  each  dreadful  scene. 
In  darkness  and  in  storm  he  found  delight. 
Nor  less  than  when  on  ocean-wave  serene 
The  southern  sun  diffused  his  dazzling  sheen. 
Even  sad  vicissitude  amused  his  soul; 
And  if  a  sigh  would  sometimes  intervene, 
And  down  his  cheek  a  tear  of  pity  roll, 
A  sigh,  a  tear,  so  sweet,  he  wished  not  to  control. 


When  the  long-sounding  curfew  from  afar 
Loaded  with  loud  lament  the  lonely  gale, 
Young  Edwin,  lighted  by  the  evening  star, 
Lingering  and  listening,  wandered  down  the  vale. 
There  would  he  dream  of  graves,  and  corses  pale. 
And  ghosts  that  to  the  charnel-dungeon  throng, 
And  drag  a  length  of  clanking  chain,  and  wail. 
Till  silenced  by  the  owl's  terrific  song. 
Or  blast  that  shrieks  by  fits  the  shuddering  isles  along. 

Or  when  the  setting  moon,  in  crimson  dyed. 
Hung  o'er  the  dark  and  melancholy  deep, 
To  haunted  stream,  remote  from  man,  he  hied. 
Where  fays  of  yore  their  revels  wont  to  keep; 


228  ENGLISH  POETS 

And  there  let  fancy  rove  at  large,  till  sleep 
A  vision  brought  to  his  entranced  sight. 
And  first,  a  wildly  murmuring  wind  'gan  creep 
Shrill  to  his  ringing  ear;  then  tapers  bright, 
With  instantaneous  gleam,  illumed  the  vault  of  night. 


Nor  was  this  ancient  dame  a  foe  to  mirth. 
Her  ballad,   jest,   and   riddle's   quaint   device 
Oft  cheered  the  shepherds  round  their  social  hearth; 
Whom  levity  or  spleen  could  ne'er  entice 
To  purchase  chat  or  laughter  at  the  price 
Of  decency.     Nor  let  it  faith  exceed 
That  Nature  forms  a  rustic  taste  so  nice. 
Ah!  had  they  been  of  court  or  city  breed, 
Such  delicacy  were  right  marvellous  indeed. 

Oft  when  the  winter  storm  had  ceased  to  rave, 
He  roamed  the  snowy  waste  at  even,  to  view 
The  cloud   stupendous,   from  th'  Atlantic  wave 
High-towering,  sail  along  th'  horizon  blue; 
Where,  midst  the  changeful  scenery,  ever  new, 
Eancy  a  thousand  wondrous  forms  descries. 
More  wildly  great  than  ever  pencil  drew — 
Rocks,  torrents,  gulfs,  and  shapes  of  giant  size, 
And  glittering  cliffs  on  cliffs,  and  fiery  ramparts  rise. 

Thence  musing  onward  to  the  sounding  shore, 
The  lone  enthusiast  oft  would  take  his  way. 
Listening,  with  pleasing  dread,  to  the  deep  roar 
Of  the  wide-weltering  waves.     In  black  array 
When  sulphurous  clouds  rolled  on  th'  autumnal  day. 
Even  then  he  hastened  from  the  haunts  of  man. 
Along  the  trembling  wilderness  to  stray. 
What  time  the  lightning's  fierce  career  began, 
And  o'er  heaven's  rending  arch  the  rattling  thunder  ran. 

Responsive  to  the  sprightly  pipe  when  all 

In  sprightly  dance  the  village  youth  were  joined, 

Edwin,  of  melody  aye  held  in  thrall, 

From  the  rude  gambol  far  remote  reclined. 

Soothed  with  the  soft  notes  warbling  in  the  wind. 


LADY   ANNE   LINDSAY  229 

Ah  then  all  jollity  seemed  noise  and  folly 
To  the  pure  soul  by  fancy's  fire  refined! 
Ah,  what  is  mirth  but  turbulence  unholy 
When  with  the  charm  compared  of  heavenly  melancholy! 


LADY   ANNE   LINDSAY 

AULD   KOBIN   GRAY 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame, 
And  a'  the  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his  bride; 
But  saving  a  croun  he  had  naething  else  beside; 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaid  to  sea; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa'  a  week  but  only  twa, 

When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the  cow  was  stown 

awa'; 
My  mother  she  fell  sick, — and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin; 
I  toiled  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win ; 
Auld  Rob  maintained  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears  in  his  e'e 
Said,  'Jennie^  for  their  sakes,  O,  marry  me!' 

My  heart  it  said  nay;  I  looked  for  Jamie  back; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a  wrack; 
His  ship  it  was  a  wrack — Why  didna  Jamie  dee? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae's  me! 

My  father  urged  me  sair :  my  mother  didna  speak ; 
But  she  looked  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to  break : 
They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  though  my  heart  was  in  the  sea; 
Sae  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 


230  ENGLISH   POETS 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith, — for  I  couldna  think  it  he, 
Till  he  said,  'I'm  come  hame  to  marry  thee.' 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  we  tore  ourselves  away: 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee; 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,  Wae's  me! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be. 
For  auld  Kobin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 


JEAN   ADAMS 
THEEE'S    NAE    LUCK   ABOUT    THE    HOUSE 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true, 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel? 
Is  this  a  time  to  think  of  wark? 

Ye  jauds,  fling  by  your  wheel. 
Is  this  the  time  to  think  of  wark, 

When  Colin's  at  the  door? 
Gi'e  me  my  cloak!     I'll  to  the  quay 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 

Eor  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  ava; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house. 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

Eise  up  and  mak'  a  clean  fireside; 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot; 
Gi'e  little  Kate  her  cotton  gown, 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat: 


JEAN   ADAMS  231 

And  mak'  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes, 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa'. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upon  the  bank, 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair; 
Mak'  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

That  Colin  weel  may  fare; 
And  mak'  the  table  neat  and  clean. 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw; 
It's  a'  for  love  of  my  gudeman. 

For  he's  been  long  awa'. 

O  gi'e  me  down  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop  satin  gown, 
For  I  maun  tell  the  bailie's  wife 

That  Colin's  come  to  town. 
My  Sunday's  shoon  they  maun  gae  on, 

My  hose  o'  pearl  blue; 
'Tis  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Sae  true  his  words,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath's  like  caller  air! 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't, 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair. 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  with  the  thought, — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet. 

The  cauld  blasts  o'  the  winter  wind, 

That  thrilled  through  my  heart. 
They're  a'  blawn  by;  I  ha'e  him  safe. 

Till  death  we'll  never  part: 
But  what  puts  parting  in  my  head? 

It  may  be  far  awa'; 
The  present  moment  is  our  ain, 

The  neist  we  never  saw. 


232  ENGLISH   POETS 

Since  Colin's  weel,  I'm  weel  content, 

I  ha'e  nae  more  to  crave; 
Could  I  but  live  to  mak'  him  blest, 

I'm  blest  above  the  lave: 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

Arid  will  I  hear  him  speak? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, — 

In  troth,  I'm  like  to  greet. 


EGBERT   FERGUSSON 

THE   DAFT   DAYS 

Now  mirk  December's  dowie  face 
Glowrs  owr  the  rigs  wi'  sour  grimace, 
While,  thro'  his  minimum  of  space. 

The  bleer-eyed  sun, 
Wi'  blinkin'  light  and  stealing  pace, 

His  race  doth  run. 

Erom  naked  groves  nae  birdie  sings; 
To  shepherd's  pipe  nae  hillock  rings; 
The  breeze  nae  od'rous  flavour  brings 

Erom  Borean  cave; 
And  dwyning  Nature  droops  her  wings, 

Wi'  visage  grave. 

Mankind  but  scanty  pleasure  glean 
Frae  snawy  hill  or  barren  plain. 
Whan  Winter,  'midst  his  nipping  train, 

Wi'  frozen  spear, 
Sends  drift  owr  a'  his  bleak  domain. 

And  guides  the  weir. 

Auld  Reikie!  thou'rt  the  canty  hole, 
A  bield  for  mony  a  caldrife  soul. 
What  snugly  at  thine  ingle  loll, 

Baith  warm  and  couth, 
While  round  they  gar  the  bicker  roll 

To  weet  their  mouth. 


ROBERT   FERGUSSON 

When  merry  Yule  Day  comes,  I  trow, 
You'll  scantlins  find  a  hungry  mou; 
Sma'  are  our  cares,  our  stamacks  fou 

O'  gusty  gear 
And  kickshaws,  strangers  to  our  view 

Sin'  fairn-year. 

Ye  browster  wives,  now  busk  ye  bra, 
And  fling  your  sorrows  far  awa'; 
Then  come  and  gie's  the  tither  blaw 

O'  reaming  ale, 
Mair  precious  than  the  Well  of  Spa, 

Our  hearts  to  heal. 

Then,  though  at  odds  wi'  a'  the  warl', 
Amang  oursells  we'll  never  quarrel; 
Though  Discord  gie  a  cankered  snarl 

To  spoil  our  glee, 
As  lang's  there's  pith  into  the  barrel 

We'll  drink  and  'gree. 

Fiddlers,  your  pins  in  temper  fix, 
And  roset  weel  your  fiddlesticks; 
But  banish  vile  Italian  tricks 

From  out  your  quorum. 
Nor  fortes  wi'  pianos  mix — 

Gie's  Tullochgorum' ! 

For  naught  can  cheer  the  heart  sae  weel 
As  can  a  canty  Highland  reel; 
It  even  vivifies  the  heel 

To  skip  and  dance: 
Lifeless  is  he  wha  canna  feel 

Its  influence. 

Let  mirth  abound;  let  social  cheer 
Invest  the  dawning  of  the  year; 
Let  blithesome  innocence  appear. 

To  crown  our  joy; 
Nor  envy,  wi'  sarcastic  sneer. 

Our  bliss  destroy. 


284  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  thou,  great  god  of  aqua  vitoe! 
Wha  sways  the  empire  of  this  city, — 
When  fou  we're  sometimes  capernoity, — 

Be  thou  prepared 
To  hedge  us  frae  that  black  banditti. 

The  City  Guard. 


ANONYMOUS 
ABSENCE 


When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 
I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie; 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie. 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie! 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours. 
As  ye  were  wae  and  weary ! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 


JOHN   LANGHORNE 

From    THE    COUNTKY   JUSTICE 

General  Motives  for  Lenity 

Be  this,  ye  rural  Magistrates,  your  plan: 
Firm  be  your  justice,  but  be  friends  to  man. 
He  whom  the  mighty  master  of  this  ball 
We  fondly  deem,  or  farcically  call. 
To  own  the  patriarch's  truth  however  loth. 
Holds  but  a  mansion  crushed  before  the  moth. 
Frail  in  his  genius,  in  his  heart,  too,  frail. 
Bom  but  to  err,  and  erring  to  bewail; 


AUGUSTUS   MONTAGU   TOPLADY  235 

Shalt  thou  his  faults  with  eye  severe  explore, 
And  give  to  life  one  human  weakness  more? 
Still  mark  if  vice  or  nature  prompts  the  deed ; 
Still  mark  the  strong  temptation  and  the  need; 
On  pressing  want,  on  famine's  powerful  call. 
At  least  more  lenient  let  thy  justice  fall. 

Apology  for  Vagrants 

For  him  who,  lost  to  every  hope  of  life, 
Has  long  with  fortune  held  unequal  strife, 
Known  to  no  human  love,  no  human  care. 
The  friendless,  homeless  object  of  despair; 
For  the  poor  vagrant,  feel  while  he  complains. 
Nor  from  sad  freedom  send  to  sadder  chains. 
Alike,   if  folly  or  misfortune  brought 
Those  last  of  woes  his  evil  days  have  wrought; 
Believe  with  social  mercy   and  with  me. 
Folly's  misfortune  in  the  first  degree. 

Perhaps  on  some  inhospitable  shore 
The  houseless  wretch  a  widowed  parent  bore, 
Who,  then  no  more  by  golden  prospects  led, 
Of  the  poor  Indian  begged  a  leafy  bed; 
Cold  on   Canadian  hills,   or  Minden's  plain. 
Perhaps  that  parent  mourned  her  soldier  slain, 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew. 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew, 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  in  tears! 


AUGUSTUS    MONTAGU   TOPLADY 

EOCK  OF  AGES 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me. 

Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee! 

Let  the  water  and  the  blood 

From  Thy  riven  side  which  flowed, 

Be  of  sin  the  double  cure. 

Cleanse  me  from  its  guilt  and  power. 


236  ENGLISH  POETS 

Not  the  labors  of  my  hands 
Can  fulfil  Thy  law's  demands; 
Could  my  zeal  no  respite  know, 
Could  my  tears  forever  flow, 
All  for  sin  could  not  atone; 
Thou  must  save,  and  Thou  alone. 

Nothing  in  my  hand  I  bring; 
Simply  to  Thy  cross  I  cling; 
Naked,  come  to  Thee  for  dress; 
Helpless,   look  to   Thee  for  grace; 
Foul,  I  to  the  fountain  fly; 
Wash  me.  Saviour,  or  I  die! 

While  I  draw  this  fleeting  breathy 
When  my  eyestrings  break  in  death, 
When   I   soar   through   tracts   unknown. 
See  Thee  on  Thy  judgment-throne; 
Eock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me. 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee! 


JOHN    SKINNER 
TULLOCHGORUM 

Come  gie's  a  sang!  Montgomery  cried. 
And  lay  your  disputes  all  aside; 
What  signifies  't  for  folk  to  chide 

For  what's  been  done  before  'em? 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree. 
Whig  and  Tory,  Whig  and  Tory, 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 

To  drop  their  Whig-mig-morum ! 
Let  Whig  and  Tory  all  agree 
To  spend  the  night  in  mirth  and  glee, 
And  cheerfu'  sing,  alang  wi'  me, 

The  reel  o'  Tullochgorum! 


JOHN   SKINNER 

O,  Tullochfforum's  my  delight ; 

It  gars  us  a'  in  ane  unite; 

And  ony  sumph'  that  keeps  up  spite, 

In  conscience  I  abhor  him: 
For  blythe  and  cheery  we's  be  a', 
Blythe  and  cheery,  blythe  and  cheery, 
Blythe  and  cheery  we's  be  a', 

And  mak  a  happy  quorum; 

For  blythe  and  cheery  we's  be  a'. 
As  lang  as  we  hae  breath  to  draw. 
And  dance,  till  we  be  like  to  fa'. 
The  reel  o'  Tullochgorum ! 

There  needs  na  be  sae  great  a  phrase 
Wi'  dringing  dull  Italian  lays; 
I  wadna  gi'e  our  ain  strathspeys 

For  half  a  hundred  score  o'  'em: 
They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
DoufF  and  dowie,  douff  and  dowie. 
They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 

Wi'  a'  their  variorum; 
They're  douff  and  dowie  at  the  best, 
Their  allegros  and  a'  the  rest; 
They  canna  please  a  Scottish  taste. 

Compared  wi'  Tullochgorum. 

Let  warldly  minds  themselves  oppress 
Wi'  fears  of  want  and  double  cess, 
And  sullen   sots   themselves   distress 

Wi'  keeping  up  decorum:  _ 
Shall  we  sae  sour  and  sulky  sit? 
Sour  and  sulky,  sour  and  sulky. 
Shall  we  sae  sour   and  sulky  sit. 

Like  auld  Philosophorum? 
Shall  we  so  sour  and  sulky  sit, 
Wi'  neither  sense  nor  mirth  nor  wit. 
Nor  ever  rise  to  shake  a  fit 

To  the  reel  o'  Tullochgorum? 

May  choicest  blessings  still  attend 
Each  honest,  open-hearted  friend; 
And  calm  and  quiet  be  his  end, 


238  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  a'  that's  good  watch  o'er  him! 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot. 
Peace  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty, 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 

And  dainties  a  great  store  o'  em! 
May  peace  and  plenty  be  his  lot, 
Unstained  by  any  vicious  spot. 
And  may  he  never  want  a  groat 

That's  fond  o'  Tullochgorum! 

But  for  the  dirty,  yawning  fool 
Who  wants  to  be  Oppression's  tool, 
May  envy  gnaw  his  rotten  soul, 

And  discontent  devour  him! 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
Dool  and  sorrow,  dool  and  sorrow. 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance. 

And  nane  say  'wae's  me'  for  him! 
May  dool  and  sorrow  be  his  chance, 
Wi'  a'  the  ills  that  come  frae  France, 
Whae'er  he  be,  that  winna  dance 

The  reel  o'  Tullochgorum! 


THOMAS    CHATTERTON 

[SONGS   FEOM    ".?^LLA,    A   TKAGYCAL   ENTER- 
LUDE,  WROTENN  BIE  THOMAS  ROWLEIE"] 

[THE    BODDYNGE    FLOURETTES    BLOSHES 
ATTE  THE  LYGHTE] 

FYRSTE    MYNSTRELLE 

The  boddynge  flourettes  bloshes  atte  the  lyghte; 
The  mees  be  sprenged  wyth  the  yellowe  hue; 
Ynn  daiseyd  mantels  ys  the  mountayne  dyghte; 
The  nesh  yonge  coweslepe  blendethe  wyth  the  dewe; 
The  trees  enlefed,  yntoe  Heavenne  straughte, 
Whenn  gentle  wyndes  doe  blowe  to  whestlyng  dynne  ys 
brought. 


THOMAS    CHATTEKTON  239 

The  evenynge  commes,  and  brynges  the  dewe  alonge; 
The  roddie  welkynne  sheeneth  to  the  eyne; 
Arounde  the  alestake  Mynstrells  synge  the  songe; 
Yonge  ivie  rounde  the  doore  poste  do  entwyne; 
I  laie  mee  onn  the  grasse;  yette,  to  mie  wylle, 
Albeytte  alle  ys  fayre,  there  laekethe  somethynge  stylle. 

SECONDE    MYNSTRELLE 

So  Adam  thoughtenne,  whann,  ynn  Paradyse, 
All  Heavenn  and  Erthe  dyd  hommage  to  hys  mynde ; 
Ynn  Womman  alleyne  mannes  pleasaunce  lyes; 
As  Instrumentes  of  joie  were  made  the  kynde. 
Go,  take  a  wyfe  untoe  thie  armes,  and  see 
Wynter  and  brownie  hylles  wyll  have  a  charm  for  thee. 

THYRDE  MYNSTRELLE 

Whanne  Autumpne  blake  and  sonne-brente  doe  appere, 
"With  hys  goulde  honde  guylteynge  the  falleynge  lefe, 
Bryngeynge  oppe  Wynter r  to  folfylle  the  yere, 
Beerynge  uponne  hys  backe  the  riped  shefe; 
Whan  al  the  hyls  wythe  woddie  sede  ys  whyte; 
Whanne  levynne-fyres  and  lemes  do  mete  from  far  the 
syghte; 

Whann  the  fayre  apple,  rudde  as  even  skie, 
Do  bende  the  tree  unto  the  fructyle  grounde; 
When  joicie  peres,  and  berries  of  blacke  die, 
Doe  daunce  yn  ayre,  and  call  the  eyne  arounde; 
Thann,  bee  the  even  foule  or  even^  fayre, 
Meethynckes  mie  hartys  joie  ys  steynced  wyth  somme  care. 


SECONDE    MYNSTRELLE 

Angelles  bee  wrogte  to  bee  of  neidher  kynde; 
Angelles  alleyne  fromme  chafe  desyre  bee  free: 
Dheere  ys  a  somwhatte  evere  yn  the  mynde, 
Yatte,  wythout  wommanne,  cannot  stylled  bee; 
Ne  seyncte  yn  celles,  botte,  havynge  blodde  and  tere, 
Do  fynde  the  spryte  to  joie  on  syghte  of  womanne  fayre; 


240  ENGLISH   POETS 

Wommen  bee  made,  notte  for  hemselves,  botte  manne, 
Bone  of  hys  bone,  and  chyld  of  bys  desire; 
Fromme  an  ynutyle  membere  fyrste  beganne, 
Ywroghte  witb  moche  of  water,  lyttele  fyre; 
Therefore  theie  seke  the  fyre  of  love,  to  bete 
The  milkyness  of  kynde,  and  make  hemselfes  complete. 

Albeytte  wythout  wommen  menne  were  pheeres 
To  salvage  kynde,  and  wulde  botte  lyve  to  slea, 
Botte  wommenne  efte  the  spryghte  of  peace  so  cheres, 
Tochelod  yn  Angel  joie  heie  Angeles  bee: 
Go,  take  thee  swythyn  to  thie  bedde  a  wyfe; 
Bee  bante  or  blessed  hie  yn  proovynge  marryage  lyfe. 


[O,  SYNGE  FNTOE  MIE  EOUNDELAIE] 

O,  synge  untoe  mie  roundelaie! 
O,  droppe  the  brynie  teare  wythe  meet 
Daunce  ne  moe  atte  hallie  dale; 
Lycke  a  reynynge  ryver  bee: 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon   to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Blacke  hys  cryne  as  the  wyntere  nyghte, 
Whyte  hys  rode  as  the  sommer  snowe, 
Rodde  hys  face  as  the  mornynge  lyghte; 
Gale  he  lyes  ynne  the  grave  belowe: 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  deathe-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Swote  hys  tyngue  as  the  throstles  note, 
Quycke  ynn  daunce  as  thoughte  canne  bee, 
Defte  hys  taboure,  codgelle  stote; 
O !  bee  lyes  hie  the  wyllowe  tree : 
Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gonne  to   hys  deathe-bedde, 
Alle  underre  the  wyllowe  tree. 


THOMAS    CHATTERTON  241 

Harke!   the  ravenne  flappes  hys  wynge, 
In  the  briered  delle  belowe; 
Harke!  the  dethe-owle  loude  dothe  synge, 
To  the  nyghte-mares  as  heie  goe: 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gonne  to  hys  deathe-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

See!  the  whyte  moone  sheenes  onne  hie; 
Whyterre  ys  mie  true  loves  shroude, 
Whyterre  yanne  the  mornynge  skie, 
Whyterre  yanne  the  evenynge  cloude: 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  deathe-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Heere,  uponne  mie  true  loves  grave, 
Schalle  the  baren  fleurs  be  layde, 
Nee  one  hallie  Seyncte  to  save 
Al  the  celness  of  a  mayde: 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gonne  to  hys  deathe-bedde, 

Alle  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Wythe  mie  hondes  I'lle  dente  the  brieres 
Eounde  his  hallie  corse  to   gre; 
Ouphante  fairie,  lyghte  youre  fyres, 
Heere  mie  boddie  stylle  schalle  bee: 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Comme,  wythe  acorne-coppe  and  thomc 
Drayne   mie  hartys   blodde   awaie; 
Lyfe  and  all  yttes  goode  I  scorne, 
Daunce  hie  nete,  or  feaste  by  dale: 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon   to   hys   death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Waterre  wytches,  crownede  wythe  reytes, 
Bere  mee  to  yer  leathalle  tyde. 
I  die!  I  comme!  mie  true  love  waytes. — 
Thos  the  damselle  spake,  and  dyed. 


242  EXGLISH   POETS 


AX   EXCELEXTE    BALADE    OF    CHAEITIE 

AS  VTROTEX  BIE  THE  CODE  PBIESTE  TH02IAS  ROWLEY^  1464 

In  Virgyne  the  sweltrie  sun  gan  sheene. 
And  hotte  upon  the  mees  did  caste  his  raie; 
The  apple  rodded  from  its  palie  greene, 
And  the  mole  peare  did  bende  the  leafy  spraie; 
The  peede  chelandri  sunge  the  livelong'  daie; 
'Twas  nowe  the  pride,,  the  manhode,  of  the  yeare. 
And  eke  the  grounde  was  dighte  in  its  most  defte  au     tc 

The  stin  was  glemeing  in  the  midde  of  daie, 
Deadde  still  the  aire,  and  eke  the  welken  blue; 
When  from  the  sea   arist   in  drear  arraie 
A  hepe  of  cloudes  of  sable  sullen  hue. 
The  which  full  fast  unto  the  woodlande  drewe, 
Hiltring  attenes  the  simnis  fetive  face, 
And  the  blacke  temi)este  swolne  and  gathered  up  apace. 

Beneathe  an  holme,  faste  by  a  pathwaie  side 
Which  dide  unto  Seyncte  Godwines  covent  lede, 
A  hapless  pilgrim  moneynge  dyd  abide, 
Pore  in  his  viewe,  ungentle  in  his  weede, 
Longe  bretful  of  the  miseries  of  neede; 
Where  from  the  hailstone  coulde  the  aimer  flie? 
He  had  no  housen  theere.  ne  anie  covent  nie. 

Look  in  his  glommed  face,  his  spright  there  scanner 
Howe  woe-be-gone,  how  withered,  forwynd,  deadel 
Haste  to  thie  church-glebe-house,  ashrewed  manne; 
Haste  to  thie  kiste,  thie  onlie  dorture  bedde: 
Cale  as  the  claie  whiche  will  gre  on  thie  hedde 
Is  Charitie  and  Love  aminge  highe  elves ; 
Knightis  and  Barons  live  for  pleasure  and  themselves. 

The  gathered  storme  is  rype;  the  bigge  drops  falle; 
The  forswat  meadowes  smethe,  and  drenche  the  raine; 
The  comyng  ghastness  do  the  cattle  pall, 
And  the  full  flockes  are  drivynge  ore  the  plaine; 
Dashde  from  the  cloudes,  the  waters  flott  againe; 
The  welkin  opes,  the  yellow  levynne  flies. 
And  the  hot  fierie  snaothe  in  the  wide  lowings  dies. 


THOMAS    CHATTERTOX  243 

Liste!  now  the  thunder's  rattling  clrmmynge  sound 
Cheves  slowie  on.  and  then  embollen  clangs, 
Shakes  the  hie  spyre.  and.  losst,  dispended.  drowned. 
Still  on  the  gallard  eare  of  terroure  hanges; 
The  windes  are  up,  the  lofty  elmen  swanges; 
Again  the  levynne  and  the  thunder  poures. 
And  the  full  cloudes  are  braste  attenes  in  stonen  showers. 

<// 

Spurreynge  his  palfrie  oere  the  watrie  plaine. 
The  Abbote  of  Seyncte  Godwyne's  convente  came: 
His  chapournette  was  drented  with  the  reine. 
And  his  penete  gyrdle  met  with  mickle  shame; 
He  aynewarde  tolde  his  bederoU  at  the  same. 
The  storme  encreasen,  and  he  drew  aside 
With  the  mist  almes-craver  neere  to  the  holme  to  bide. 

His  cope  was  all  of  Lyncolne  clothe  so  fyne. 
With  a  gold  button  fa.stened  neere  his  chynne; 
His  autremete  was  edged  with  golden  twynne. 
And  his  shoone  pyke  a  loverds  mighte  have  binne — 
Full  well  it  shewn  he  thoughten  coste  no  sinne; 
The  trammels  of  the  palfrye  pleasde  his  sighte. 
For  the  horse-millanare  his  head  with  roses  dighte. 

'An  almes.  sir  prieste!'  the  droppynge  pilgrim  saide; 
'O  let  me  waite  within  your  covente  dore. 
Till  the  sunne  sheneth  hie  above  our  heade. 
And  the  loude  tempeste  of  the  aire  is  oer. 
Helpless  and  ould  am  I.  alas  I  and  poor ; 
Xo  house,  ne  friend,  ne  moneie  in  my  pouche; 
All  yatte  I  calle  my  owne  is  this  my  silver  crouehe.' 

'Varlet,'  replyd  the  Abbatte.  'cease  your  dinne! 
This  is  no  season  almes  and  prayers  to  give. 
Mie  porter  never  lets  a  faitour  in; 
None  touch  mie  rynge  who  not  in  honour  live.' 
And  now  the  sonne  with  the  blacke  cloudes  did  stryve. 
And  shettynge  on  the  ground  his  glairie  raie: 
The   Abbatte   spurrde   his   steede,    and   eftsoones   roadde 
awaie. 


244  ENGLISH   POETS 

Once  moe  the  skie  was  blacke,  the  thounder  rolde: 
Easte  reyneynge  oer  the  plaine  a  prieste  was  seen, 
Ne  dighte  full  proude,  ne  buttoned  up  in  golde; 
His  cope  and  jape  were  graie,  and  eke  were  clene; 
A  Limitoure  he  was  of  order  scene. 
And  from  the  pathwaie  side  then  turned  hee, 
Where  the  pore  aimer  laie  binethe  the  holmen  tree. 

'An  almes,  sir  priest!'  the  droppynge  pilgrim  sayde, 
Tor  sweete  Seyncte  Marie  and  your  order  sake !' 
The  Limitoure  then  loosened  his  pouehe  threade, 
And  did  thereoute  a  groate  of  silver  take : 
The  mister  pilgrim  dyd  for  halline  shake. 
'Here,  take  this  silver;  it  male  eathe  thie  care: 
We  are  Goddes  stewards  all,  nete  of  our  owne  we  bare. 

'But  ah,  unhailie  pilgrim,  lerne  of  me 
Scathe  anie  give  a  rentrolle  to  their  Lorde. 
Here,  take  my  semecope — thou  arte  bare,  I  see; 
'Tis  thyne;  the  Seynctes  will  give  me  mie  rewarde.' 
He  left  the  pilgrim,  and  his  waie  aborde. 
Virgynne  and  hallie  Seyncte,  who  sitte  yn  gloure, 
Or  give  the  naittee  will,  or  give  the  gode  rnan  power ! 


THOMAS    DAY 
Erom    THE    DESOLATION    OF    AMEEICA 

I  see,  I  see,  swift  bursting  through  the  shade, 
The  cruel  soldier,  and  the  reeking  blade. 
And  there  the  bloody  cross  of  Britain  waves. 
Pointing  to  deeds  of  death  an  host  of  slaves. 
To  them  unheard  the  wretched  tell  their  pain. 
And  every  human  sorrow  sues  in  vain : 
Their  hardened  bosoms  never  knew  to  melt; 
Each  woe  unpitied,  and  each  pang  unfelt. — 
See!  where  they  rush,  and  with  a  savage  joy, 
Unsheathe  the  sword,  impatient  to  destroy. 


THOMAS    DAY  245 

Fierce  as  the  tiger,  bursting  from  the  wood, 
With  famished  jaws,  insatiable  of  blood! 

Yet,  yet  a  moment,  the  fell  steel  restrain; 
Must  Nature's  sacred  ties  all  plead  in  vain? 
Ah!  while  your  kindred  blood  remains  unspilt. 
And  Heaven  allows  an  awful  pause  from  guilt. 
Suspend  the  war,   and  recognize  the  bands. 
Against  whose  lives  you  arm  your  impious  hands ! — • 
Not  these,  the  boast  of  Gallia's  proud  domains, 
Nor  the  scorched  squadrons  of  Iberian  plains; 
Unhappy  men !  no  foreign  war  you  wage. 
In  your  own  blood  you  glut  your  frantic  rage; 
And  while  you  follow  where  oppression  leads, 
At  every  step,  a  friend,  or  brother,  bleeds. 

Devoted  realm !  what  now  avails  thy  claim, 
To  milder  virtue,  or  sublimer  flame? 
Or  what  avails,  unhappy  land !  to  trace 
The  generous  labours  of  thy  patriot  race? 
Who,  urged  by  fate,  and  fortitude  their  guide. 
On  the  wild  surge  their  desperate  fortune  tried; 
Undaunted  every  toil  and  danger  bore, 
And  fixed  their  standards  on  a  savage  shore; 
What  time  they  fled,  with  an  averted  eye. 
The  baneful  influence  of  their  native  sky, 
Where  slowly  rising  through  the  dusky  air, 
The  northern  meteors  shot  their  lurid  glare. 
In  vain  their  country's  genius  sought  to  move. 
With  tender  images  of  former  love, 
Sad  rising  to  their  view,  in  all  her  charms. 
And  weeping  wooed  them  to  her  well-known  arms. 
The  favoured  clime,  the  soft  domestic  air. 
And  wealth  and  ease  were  all  below  their  care. 
Since  there  an  hated  tyrant  met  their  eyes 
And  blasted  every  blessing  of  the  skies. 

And  now,  no  more  by  nature's  bounds  confined 
He*  spreads  his  dragon  pinions  to  the  wind. 
The  genius  of  the  West  beholds  him  near. 
And  freedom  trembles  at  her  last  barrier. 
*  The  monster,  tyranny. 


246  ENGLISH   POETS 

In  vain  she  deemed  in  this  sequestered  seat 
To  fix  a  refuge  for  her  wandering  feet; 
To  mark  one  altar  sacred  to  her  fame, 
And  save  the  ruins  of  the  human  name. 


Lo !  Britain  bended  to  the  servile  yoke, 
Her  fire  extinguished,  and  her  spirit  broke, 
Beneath  the  pressure  of  [a  tyrant's]  sway, 
Herself  at  once  the  spoiler  and  the  prey. 
Detest  [s]   the  virtues  she  can  boast  no  more 
And  envies  every  right  to  every  shore! 
At  once  to  nature  and  to  pity  blind, 
Wages  abhorred  war  with  humankind ; 
And  wheresoe'er  her  ocean  rolls  his  wave, 
Provokes  an  enemy,  or  meets  a  slave. 

But  free-born  minds  inspired  with  noble  flame. 
Attest  their  origin,  and  scorn  the  claim. 
Beyond  the  sweets  of  pleasure  and  of  rest. 
The  joys  which  captivate  the  vulgar  breast; 
Beyond  the  dearer  ties  of  kindred  blood; 
Or  Brittle  life's  too  transitory  good; 
The  sacred  charge  of  liberty  they  prize,  _ 
That  last,  and  noblest,  present  of  the  skies. 


Yet,  gracious  Heaven!  though  clouds  may  intervene. 

And  transitory  horrors  shade  the  scene; 

Though  for  an  instant  virtue  sink  depressed. 

While  vice  exulting  rears  her  bloody  crest; 

Thy  sacred  truth  shall  still  inspire  my  mind, 

To  cast  the  terrors  of  my  fate  behind! 

Thy  power  which  nature's  utmost  bound  pervades, 

Beams  through  the  void,  and  cheers  destruction's  shades. 

Can  blast  the  laurel  on  the  victor's  head, 

And  smooth  the  good  man's  agonizing  bed. 

To  songs  of  triumph  change  the  captive's  groans. 

And  hurl  the  powers  of  darkness  from  their  thrones! 


GEOEGE  CRABBE  247 


GEOKGE  CRABBE 

From    THE   LIBEAEY 

When  the  sad  soul,  by  care  and  grief  oppressed,     jr^jji*^ 

Looks  round  the  world,  but  looks  in  vain  for  rest; 

When  every  object  that  appears  in  view, 

Partakes  her  gloom  and  seems  dejected  too; 

Where  shall  affliction  from  itself  retire? 

Where  fade  away  and  placidly  expire? 

Alas!  we  fly  to  silent  scenes  in  vain; 

Care  blasts  the  honours  of  the  flowery  plain: 

Care  veils  in  clouds  the  sun's  meridian  beam. 

Sighs  through  the  grove,  and  murmurs  in  the  stream; 

For  when  the  soul  is  labouring  in  despair, 

In  vain  the  body  breathes  a  purer  air. 

Here  come  the  grieved,  a  change  of  thought  to  find; 
The  curious  here,  to  feed  a  craving  mind; 
Here  the  devout  their  peaceful  temple  choose; 
And  here  the  poet  meets  his  fav'ring  Muse. 
With  awe,  around  these  silent  walks  I  tread; 
These  are  the  lasting  mansions  of  the  dead: — 
'The  dead!'  methinks  a  thousand  tongues  reply, 
'These  are  the  tombs  of  such  as  cannot  die! 
Crowned  with  eternal  fame,  they  sit  sublime, 
And  laugh  at  all  the  little  strife  of  time.' 

Lo!  all  in  silence,  all  in  order  stand, 

And  mighty  folios  first,  a  lordly  band; 

Then  quartos  their  well-ordered  ranks  maintain. 

And  light  octavos  fill  a  spacious  plain: 

See  yonder,  ranged  in  more  frequented  rows, 

A  humbler  band  of  duodecimos; 

While  undistinguished  trifles  swell  the  scene, 

The  last  new  play  and  frittered  magazine. 

But  who  are  these,  a  tribe  that  soar  above. 
And  tell  more  tender  tales  of  modern  love? 


248  ENGLISH   POETS 

A  novel  train!  the  brood  of  old  Romance, 

Conceived  by  Folly  on  the  coast  of  France, 

That  now  with  lighter  thought  and  gentler  fire, 

Usurp  the  honours  of  their  drooping  sire; 

And  still  fantastic,  vain,  and  trifling,  sing 

Of  many  a  soft  and  inconsistent  thing, — 

Of  rakes  repenting,  clogged  in  Hymen's  chain, 

Of  nymph  reclined  by  unpresuming  swain. 

Of  captains,  colonels,  lords,  and  amorous  knights, 

That  find  in  humbler  nymphs  such  chaste  delights, 

Such  heavenly  charms,  so  gentle,  yet  so  gay. 

That  all  their  former  follies  fly  away: 

Honour  springs  up,  where'er  their  looks   impart 

A  moment's  sunshine  to  the  hardened  heart; 

A  virtue,  just  before  the  rover's  jest. 

Grows  like  a  mushroom  in  his  melting  breast. 

Much  too  they  tell  of  cottages  and  shades, 

Of  balls,  and  routs,  and  midnight  masquerades, 

Where  dangerous  men  and  dangerous  mirth  reside, 

And  Virtue  goes  on  purpose  to  be  tried. 

These  are  the  tales  that  wake  the  soul  to  life, 
That  charm  the  sprightly  niece  and  forward  wife. 
That  form  the  manners  of  a  polished  age. 
And  each  pure  easy  moral  of  the  stage. 


From   THE    VILLAGE 

The  village  life,  and  every  care  that  reigns 
O'er  youthful  peasants  and  declining  swains; 
What  labour  yields,  and  what,  that  labour  past, 
Age,  in  its  hour  of  languor,  finds  at  last; 
What  form  the  real  picture  of  the  poor, 
Demand  a  song — the  Muse  can  give  no  more. 

Fled  are  those  times  when,  in  harmonious  strains. 
The  rustic  poet  praised  his  native  plains; 
No  shepherds  now,  in  smooth  alternate  verse. 
Their  country's  beauty  or  their  nymphs'  rehearse: 
Yet  still  for  these  we  frame  the  tender  strain; 
Still  in  our  lays  fond  Corydons  complain. 
And  shepherds'  boys  their  amorous  pains  reveal — 
The  only  pains,  alas!  they  never  feel. 


GEORGE  CRABBE  249,, 

On  Mincio's  banks,  in  Caesar's  bounteous  reign,  '  '^ 

If  Tityrus  found  the  Golden  Age  again, 
Must  sleepy  bards  the  flattering  dream  prolong. 
Mechanic  echoes  of  the  Mantuan  song? 
From  Truth  and  Nature  shall  we  widely  stray. 
Where  Virgil,  not  where  Fancy,  leads  the  way  ? 
Yes,  thus  the  Muses  sing  of  happy  swains, 
Because  the  Muses  never  knew  their  pains. 
They  boast  their  peasants'  pipes;  but  peasants  now 
Resign  their  pipes  and  plod  behind  the  plough, 
And  few  amid  the  rural  tribe  have  time 
To  number  syllables  and  play  with  rhyme: 
Save  honest  Duck,  what  son  of  verse  could  share 
The  poet's  rapture  and  the  peasant's  care. 
Or  the  great  labours  of  the  field  degrade 
With  the  new  peril  of  a  poorer  trade? 

From  this  chief  cause  these  idle  praises  spring — 
That  themes  so  easy  few  forbear  to  sing, 
For  no  deep  thought  the  trifling  subjects  ask; 
To  sing  of  shepherds  is  an  easy  task: 
The  happy  youth  assumes  the  common  strain, 
A  nymph  his  mistress,  and  himself  a  swain ; 
With  no  sad  scenes  he  clouds  his  tuneful  prayer. 
But  all,  to  look  like  her,  is  painted  fair. 

I  grant  indeed  that  fields  and  flocks  have  charms 
For  him  that  grazes  or  for  him  that  farms; 
But  when  amid  such  pleasing  scenes  I  trace 
The  poor  laborious  natives  of  the  place, 
And  see  the  mid-day  sun  with  fervid  ray 
On  their  bare  heads  and  dev?y  temples  play, 
While  some,  with  feebler  heads  and  fainter  hearts 
Deplore  their  fortune  yet  sustain  their  parts, 
Then  shall  I  dare  these  real  ills  to  hide 
In  tinsel  trappings  of  poetic  pride? 

No;  cast  by  Fortune  on  a  frowning  coast. 
Which  neither  groves  nor  happy  valleys  boast; 
Where  other  cares  than  those  the  Muse  relates. 
And  other  shepherds  dwell  with  other  mates; 
By  such  examples  taught,  I  paint  the  cot 
As  Truth  will  paint  it  and  as  bards  will  not. 
Nor  you,  ye  poor,  of  lettered  scorn  complain : 
To  you  the  smoothest  song  is  smooth  in  vain; 


250  ENGLISH   POETS 

O'ercome  by  labour  and  bowed  down  by  time. 
Feel  you  the  barren  flattery  of  a  rhyme? 
Can  poets  soothe  you,  when  you  pine  for  bread, 
By  winding  myrtles  round  your  ruined  shed? 
Can  their  light  tales  your  weighty  griefs  o'erpower, 
Or  glad  with  airy  mirth  the  toilsome  hour? 

Lo!  where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake  grown  o'er, 
Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighbouring  poor; 
From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  appears. 
Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  withered  ears; 
Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 
Reign  o'er  the  land  and  rob  the  blighted  rye: 
There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar, 
And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war; 
There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil ; 
There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil; 
Hardy  and  high,  above  the  slender  sheaf. 
The  slimy  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 
O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a  shade. 
And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade; 
With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 
And  a  sad  splendour  vainly  shines  around. 

Here,  wandering  long,  amid  these  frowning  fields, 
I  sought  the  simple  life  that  Nature  yields: 
Rapine  and  Wrong  and  Fear  usurped  her  place, 
And  a  bold,  artful,  surly,  savage  race ; 
Who,  only  skilled  to  take  the  finny  tribe. 
The  yearly  dinner,  or  septennial  bribe. 
Wait  on  the  shore,  and,  as  the  waves  run  high. 
On  the  tossed  vessel  bend  their  eager  eye. 
Which  to  their  coast  directs  its  venturous  way; 
Theirs  or  the  ocean's  miserable  prey. 

As  on  their  neighbouring  beach  yon  swallows  stand, 
And  wait  for  favouring  winds  to  leave  the  land; 
While  still  for  flight  the  ready  wing  is  spread: 
So  waited  I  the  favouring  hour,  and  fled; 
Fled  from  these  shores  where  guilt  and  famine  reign, 
And  cried,  'Ah!  hapless  they  who  still  remain: 
Who  still  remain  to  hear  the  ocean  roar. 
Whose  greedy  waves  devour  the  lessening  shore; 


GEOEGE    CRABBE  251 

Till  some  fierce  tide,  with  more  imperious  sway 
Sweeps  the  low  hut  and  all  it  holds  away; 
When  the  sad  tenant  weeps  from  door  to  door, 
And  begs  a  poor  protection  from  the  poor!' 

But  these  are  scenes  where  Nature's  niggard  hand 
Gave  a  spare  portion  to  the  famished  land; 
Hers  is  the  fault,  if  here  mankind  complain 
Of  fruitless  toil  and  labour  spent  in  vain; 
But  yet  in  other  scenes  more  fair  in  view, 
Where  Plenty  smiles — alas!  she  smiles  for  few — 
And  those  who  taste  not,  yet  behold  her  store. 
Are  as  the  slaves  that  dig  the  golden  ore — 
The  wealth  around  them  makes  them  doubly  poor. 
Or  will  you  deem  them  amply  paid  in  health, 
Labour's  fair  child,  that  languishes  with  wealth? 
Go,  then!  and  see  them  rising  with  the  sun. 
Through  a  long  course  of  daily  toil  to  run; 
See  them  beneath  the  Dog-star's  raging  heat. 
When  the  knees  tremble  and  the  temples  beat; 
Behold  them,  leaning  on  their  scythes,  look  o'er 
The  labour  past,  and  toils  to  come  explore; 
See  them  alternate  suns  and  showers  engage. 
And  hoard  up  aches  and  anguish  for  their  age; 
Through  fens  and  marshy  moors  their  steps  pursue. 
When  their  warm  pores  imbibe  the  evening  dew; 
Then  own  that  labour  may  as  fatal  be 
To  these  thy  slaves,  as  thine  excess  to  thee. 

Amid  this  tribe  too  oft  a  manly  pride 
Strives  in  strong  toil  the  fainting  heart  to  hide; 
There  may  you  see  the  youth  of  slender  frame 
Contend  with  weakness,  weariness,  and  shame; 
Yet,  urged  along,  and  proudly  loth  to  yield, 
He  strives  to  join  his  fellows  of  the  field; 
Till  long-contending  nature  droops  at  last. 
Declining  health  rejects  his  poor  repast, 
His  cheerless  spouse  the  coming  danger  sees. 
And  mutual  murmurs  urge  the  slow  disease. 

Yet  grant  them  health,  'tis  not  for  us  to  tell. 
Though  the  head  droops  not,  that  the  heart  is  well; 
Or  will  you  praise  that  homely,  healthy  fare. 
Plenteous  and  plain,  that  happy  peasants  share! 


252  ENGLISH   POETS 

Oh!  trifle  not  with  wants  you  cannot  feel, 
Nor  mock  the  misery  of  a  stinted  meal; 
Homely,  not  wholesome,  plain,  not  plenteous,  such 
As  you  who  praise,  would  never  deign  to  touch. 

Ye  gentle  souls,  who  dream  of  rural  ease, 
Whom  the  smooth  stream  and  smoother  sonnet  please; 
Go !  if  the  peaceful  cot  your  praises  share. 
Go  look  within,  and  ask  if  peace  be  there; 
If  peace  be  his,  that  drooping  weary  sire ; 
Or  theirs,  that  offspring  round  their  feeble  fire ; 
Or  hers,  that  matron  pale,  whose  trembling  hand 
Turns  on  the  wretched  hearth  th'  expiring  brand. 

Nor  yet  can  Time  itself  obtain  for  these 
Life's  latest  comforts,  due  respect  and  ease; 
For  yonder  see  that  hoary  swain,  whose  age 
Can  with  no  cares  except  its  own  engage; 
Who,  propped  on  that  rude  staff,  looks  up  to  see 
The  bare  arms  broken  from  the  withering  tree. 
On  which,  a  boy,  he  climbed  the  loftiest  bough, 
Tlaen  his  first  joy,  but  his  sad  emblem  now. 

He  once  was  chief  in  all  the  rustic  trade; 
His  steady  hand  the  straightest  furrow  made; 
Full  many  a  prize  he  won,  and  still  is  proud 
To  find  the  triumphs  of  his  youth  allowed; 
A  transient  pleasure  sparkles  in  his  eyes. 
He  hears  and  smiles,  then  thinks  again  and  sighs; 
For  now  he  journeys  to  his  grave  in  pain ; 
The  rich  disdain  him;  nay,  the  poor  disdain: 
Alternate  masters  now  their  slave  command. 
Urge  the  weak  efforts  of  his  feeble  hand. 
And,  when  his  age  attempts  its  task  in  vain. 
With  ruthless  taunts,  of  lazy  poor  complain. 

Oft  may  you  see  him,  when  he  tends  the  sheep. 
His  winter  charge,  beneath  the  hillock  weep; 
Oft  hear  him  murmur  to  the  winds  that  blow 
O'er  his  white  locks  and  bury  them  in  snow. 
When,  roused  by  rage  and  muttering  in  the  morn. 
He  mends  the  broken  hedge  with  icy  thorn : — 

'Why  do  I  live,  when  I  desire  to  be 
At  once  from  life  and  life's  long  labour  free? 
Like  leaves  in  spring,  the  young  are  blown  away, 
Without  the  sorrows  of  a  slow  decay; 


GEOEGE    CKABBE  253 

I,  like  yon  withered  leaf,  remain  behind, 
Nipped  by  the  frost,  and  shivering  in  the  wind; 
There  it  abides  till  younger  buds   come  on 
As  I,  now  all  my  fellow-swains  are  gone; 
Then  from  the  rising  generation  thrust, 
It  falls,  like  me,   unnoticed  to  the  dust. 

'These  fruitful  fields,  these  numerous  flocks  I  see, 
Are  others'  gain,  but  killing  cares  to  me; 
To  me  the  children  of  my  youth  are  lords. 
Cool  in  their  looks,  but  hasty  in  their  words: 
Wants  of  their  own  demand  their  care;  and  who 
Feels  his  own  want  and  succours  others  too? 
A  lonely,  wretched  man,  in  pain  I  go, 
None  need  my  help,  and  none  relieve  my  woe; 
Then  let  my  bones  beneath  the  turf  be  laid, 
And  men  forget  the  wretch  they  would  not  aid.' 

Thus  groan  the  old,  till  by  diseasp  oppressed, 
They  taste  a  final  woe,  and  then  they  rest. 

Theirs  is  yon  house  that  holds  the.  parish  poor, 
Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door; 
There,  where  the  putrid  vapours,  flagging,  play. 
And  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents'  care; 
Parents,  who  know  no  children's  love,  dwell  there! 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed. 
Forsaken  wives,  and  mothers  never  wed; 
Dejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears. 
And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood  fears; 
The  lame,  the  blind,  and,  far  the  happiest  they! 
The  moping  idiot,  and  the  madman  gay. 
Here  too  the  sick  their  final  doom  receive. 
Here  brought,  amid  the  scenes  of  grief,  to  grieve, 
Where  the  loud  groans  from  some  sad  chamber  flow, 
Mixed  with  the  clamours  of  the  crowd  below; 
Here,  sorrowing,  they  each  kindred  sorrow  scan, 
And  the  cold  charities  of  man  to  man: 
Whose  laws  indeed  for  ruined  age  provide. 
And  strong  compulsion  plucks  the  scrap  from  pride; 
But  still  that  scrap  is  bought  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  pride  embitters  what  it  can't  deny. 

Say,  ye,  oppressed  by  some  fantastic  woes. 
Some  jarring  nerve  that  baffles  your  repose; 


254  ENGLISH   POETS 

Who  press  the  downy  couch,  while  slaves  advance 
With  timid  eye  to  read  the  distant  glance; 
Who  with  sad  prayers  the  weary  doctor  tease 
To  name  the  nameless,  ever-new,  disease; 
Who  with  mock  patience  dire  complaints  endure. 
Which  real  pain,  and  that  alone,  can  cure ; 
How  would  ye  bear  in  real  pain  to  lie, 
Despised,  neglected,  left  alone  to  die? 
How  would  ye  bear  to  draw  your  latest  breath 
Where  all  that's  wretched  paves  the  way  for  death? 
Such  is  that  room  which  one  rude  beam  divides. 
And  naked  rafters  form  the  sloping  'sides ; 
Where  the  vile  bands  that  bind  the  thatch  are  seen. 
And  lath  and  mud  are  all  that  lie  between. 
Save  one  dull  pane  that,  coarsely  patched,  gives  way 
To  the  rude  tempest,  yet  excludes  the  day: 
Here  on  a  matted  flock,  with  dust  o'erspread, 
The  drooping  wretch  reclines  his  languid  head; 
For  him  no  hand  the  cordial  cup  applies. 
Or  wipes  the  tear  that  stagnates  in  his  eyes; 
No  friends  with  soft  discourse  his  pain  beguile, 
Or  promise  hope  till  sickness  wears  a  smile. 

But  soon  a  loud  and  hasty  summons  calls. 
Shakes  the  thin  roof,  and  echoes  round  the  walls; 
Anon,  a  figure  enters,  quaintly  neat, 
All  pride  and  business,  bustle  and  conceit; 
With  looks  unaltered  by  these  scenes  of  woe. 
With  speed  that,  entering,  speaks  his  haste  to  go, 
He  bids  the  gazing  throng  around  him  fly, 
And  carries  fate  and  physic  in  his  eye:_ 
A  potent  quack,  long  versed  in  human  ills, 
Who  first  insults  the  victim  whom  he  kills; 
Whose  murderous  hand  a  drowsy  Bench  protect. 
And  whose  most  tender  mercy  is  neglect. 
Paid  by  the  parish  for  attendance  here. 
He  wears  contempt  upon  his  sapient  sneer; 
In  haste  he  seeks  the  bed  where  misery  lies. 
Impatience  marked  in  his  averted  eyes; 
And,  some  habitual  queries  hurried  o'er. 
Without  reply  he  rushes  on  the  door: 
His  drooping  patient,  long  inured  to  pam. 
And  long  unheeded,  knows  remonstrance  vam; 


GEOEGE    CRABBE  255 

He  ceases  now  the  feeble  help  to  crave 
Of  man;  and  silent  sinks  into  the  grave. 

But  ere  his  death  some  pious  doubts  arise, 
Some  simple  fears,  which  'bold  bad'  men  despise; 
Fain  would  he  ask  the  parish-priest  to  prove 
His  title  certain  to  the  joys  above: 
For  this  he  sends  the  murm'ring  nurse,  who  calls 
The  holy  stranger  to  these  dismal  walls : 
And  doth  not  he,  the  pious  man,  appear. 
He,  'passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year?'  ,^^ 

Ah!  no;  a  shepherd  of  a  different  stock,  ^\^  \ 

And  far  unlike  him,  feeds  this  little  flock: 
A  jovial  youth,  who  thinks  his  Sunday's  task 
As  much  as  God  or  man  can  fairly  ask; 
The  rest  he  gives  to  loves  and  labours  light, 
To  fields  the  morning,  and  to  feasts  the  night; 
None  better  skilled  the  noisy  pack  to  guide. 
To  urge  their  chase,  to  cheer  them  or  to  chide; 
A  sportsman  keen,  he  shoots  through  half  the  day. 
And,  skilled  at  whist,  devotes  the  night  to  play: 
Then,  while  such  honours  bloom  around  his  head. 
Shall  he  sit  sadly  by  the  sick  man's  bed, 
To  raise  the  hope  he  feels  not,  or  with  zeal 
To  combat  fears  that  e'en  the  pious  feel? 


And  hark!  the  riots  of  the  green  begin, 
That  sprang  at  first  from  yonder  noisy  inn; 
What  time  the  weekly  pay  was  vanished  all. 
And  the  slow  hostess  scored  the  threatening  wall; 
What  time  they  asked,  their  friendly  feast  to  close, 
A  final  cup,  and  that  will  make  them  foes; 
When  blows  ensue  that  break  the  arm  of  toil. 
And  rustic  battle  ends  the  boobies'  broil. 

Save  when  to  yonder  hall  they  bend  their  way. 
Where  the  grave  justice  ends  the  grievous  fray; 
He  who  recites,  to  keep  the  poor  in  awe. 
The  law's  vast  volume — for  he  knows  the  law: — 
To  him  with  anger  or  with  shame  repair 
The  injured  peasant  and  deluded  fair. 
Lo!  at  his  throne  the  silent  nymph  appears, 
Frail  by  her  shape,  but  modest  in  her  tears; 


256  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  while  she  stands  abashed,  with  conscious  eye, 
Some  favourite  female  of  her  judge  glides  by, 
Who  views  with  scornful  glance  the  strumpet's  fate. 
And  thanks  the  stars  that  made  her  keeper  great; 
Near  her  the  swain,  about  to  bear  for  life 
One  certain  evil,  doubts  'twixt  war  and  wife; 
But,  while  the  faltering  damsel  takes  her  oath. 
Consents  to  wed,  and  so  secures  them  both. 

Yet  why,  you  ask,  these  humble  crimes  relate. 
Why  make  the  poor  as  guilty  as  the  great  ? 
To  show  the  great,  those  mightier  sons  of  pride, 
How  near  in  vice  the  lowest  are  allied ; 
Such  are  their  natures  and  their  passions  such, 
But  these  disguise  too  little,  those  too  much : 
So  shall  the  man  of  power  and  pleasure  see 
In  his  own  slave  as  vile  a  wretch  as  he; 
In  his  luxurious  lord  the  servant  find 
His  own  low  pleasures  and  degenerate  mind; 
And  each  in  all  the  kindred  vices  trace 
Of  a  poor,  blind,  bewildered,  erring  race; 
Who,  a  short  time  in  varied  fortune  past, 
\Die,  and  are  equal  in  the  dust  at  last. 


JOHN   NEWTON 

A   VISION    OF    LIFE   IN   DEATH 

In  evil  long  I  took  delight, 

Unawed  by  shame  or  fear, 
Till  a  new  object  struck  my  sight. 

And  stopped  my  wild  career; 
I  saw  One  hanging  on  a  Tree 

In  agonies  and  blood. 
Who  fixed  His  languid  eyes  on  n;c. 

As  near  His  cross  I  stood. 

Sure  never  till  my  latest  breath 

Can  I  forget  that  look: 
It  seemed  to  charge  me  with  His  death, 

Though  not  a  word  he  spoke: 


WILLIAM    COWPER  257 

My  conscience  felt  and  owned  the  guilt, 

And  plunged  me  in  despair; 
I  saw  my  sins  His  blood  had  spilt, 

And  helped  to  nail  Him  there. 

Alas !  I  know  not  what  I  did ! 

But  now  my  tears  are  vain : 
Where  shall  my  trembling  soul  be  hid? 

For  I  the  Lord  have  slain ! 
A  second  look  He  gave,  which  said, 

*I  freely  all  forgive; 
The  blood  is  for  thy  ransom  paid ; 

I  die,  that  thou  may'st  live.' 

Thus,  while  His  death  my  sin  displays 

In  all  its  blackest  hue. 
Such  is  the  mystery  of  grace, 

It  seals  my  pardon  too. 
With  pleasing  grief  and  mournful  joy. 

My  spirit  now  is  filled 
That  I  should  such  a  life  destroy, — 

Yet  live  by  Him  I  kilfed. 


WILLIAM    COWPER 

From  TABLE  TALK 
[The  Poet  and  Religion] 

Pity  Religion  has  so  seldom  found 

A  skilful  guide  into  poetic  ground ! 

The. flowers  would  spring  where'er  she  deigned  to  stray. 

And  every  muse  attend  her  in  her  way. 

Virtue  indeed  meets  many  a  rhyming  friend. 

And  many  a  compliment  politely  penned, 

But  unattired  in  that  becoming  vest 

Religion  weaves  for  her,  and  half  undressed. 

Stands  in  the  desert  shivering  and  forlorn, 

A  wintry  figure,  like  a  withered  thorn. 


258  ENGLISH   POETS 

The  shelves  are  full,  all  other  themes  are  sped, 
Hackneyed  and  worn  to  the  last  flimsy  thread; 
Satire  has  long  since  done  his  best,  and  curst 
And  loathsome  Ribaldry  has  done  his  worst; 
Fancy  has  sported  all  her  powers  away 
In  tales,  in  trifles,  and  in  children's  play; 
And  'tis  the  sad  complaint,  and  almost  true, 
Whate'er  we  write,  we  bring  forth  nothing  new. 
fTwere  new  indeed  to  see  a  bard  all  Are, 
iTouched  with  a  coal  from  heaven,  assume  the  lyre, 
And  tell  the  world,  still  kindling  as  he  sung, 
With  more  than  mortal  music  on  his  tongue. 
That  He  who  died  below,  and  reigns  above, 
Inspires  the  song,  and  that  his  name  is  Love. 


From  CONVERSATION 
[The  Dubious  and  the  Positive] 

Dubious  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man, — 

Yes,  you  may  catch  him  tripping  if  you  can. 

He  would  not  with  a  peremptory  tone 

Assert  the  nose  upon  his  face  his  own; 

With  hesitation  admirably  slow. 

He  humbly  hopes — presumes — it  may  be  so. 

His  evidence,  if  he  were  called  by  law 

To  swear  to  some  enormity  he  saw. 

For  want  of  prominence  and  just  relief. 

Would  hang  an  honest  man,  and  save  a  thief. 

Through  constant  dread  of  giving  truth  offence. 

He  ties  up  all  his  hearers  in  suspense; 

Knows  what  he  knows,  as  if  he  knew  it  not; 

What  he  remembers  seems  to  have  forgot; 

His  sole  opinion,  whatsoe'er  befall, 

Centering  at  last  in  having  none  at  all. 

Yet  though  he  tease  and  baulk  your  listening  ear, 

He  makes  one  useful  point  exceeding  clear; 

Howe'er  ingenious  on  his  darling  theme 

A  sceptic  in  philosophy  may  seem. 

Reduced  to  practice,  his  beloved  rule 

Would  only  prove  him  a  consummate  fool; 


WILLIAM    COWPER  259 

Useless  in  him  alike  both  brain  and  speech, 
Fate  having  placed  all  truth  above  his  reach ; 
His  ambiguities  his  total  sura. 
He  might  as  well  be  blind  and  deaf  and  durnb. 

Where  men  of  judgment  creep  and  feel  their  way, 
The  positive  pronounce  without  dismay, 
Their  want  of  light  and  intellect  supplied 
By  sparks  absurdity  strikes  out  of  pride: 
Without  the  means  of  knowing  right  from  wrong. 
They  always  are  decisive,  clear,  and  strong; 
Where  others  toil  with  philosophic  force, 
Their  nimble  nonsense  takes  a  shorter  course. 
Flings  at  your  head  couviction  in  the  lump, 
And  gains  remote  conclusions  at  a  jump; 
Their  own  defect,  invisible  to  them, 
Seen  in  another,  they  at  once  condemn, 
And,  though  self-idolized  in  every  case, 
Hate  their  own  likeness  in  a  brother's  face. 
The  cause  is  plain  and  not  to  be  denied. 
The  proud  are  always  most  provoked  by  pride; 
Few  competitions  but  engender  spite, 
And  those  the  most  where  neither  has  a  right. 

TO    A   YOUNG   LADY 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade. 
Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid — 
Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along. 
Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng: 
With  gentle  yet  prevailing  force, 
Intent  upon  her  destined  course; 
Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does. 
Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes; 
Pure-bosomed  as  that  watery  glass 
ind  Heaven  reflected  in  her  face. 

THE   SHRUBBERY 

O  happy  shades !  to  me  unblest ! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me! 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest. 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree! 


260  ENGLISH   POETS 

This  glassy  stream,  that  spreading  pine. 
Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 

Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine. 
And  please,  if  anything  could  please. 


V 


But  fixed  unalterable  Care 

Foregoes  not  what  she  feels  within. 

Shows  the  same  sadness  everywhere, 
And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 

Eor  all  that  pleased  in  wood  or  lawn 

While  Peace  possessed  these  silent  bowers, 

Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 

Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  powers. 

The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 
This  moss-grown  alley,  iQusing,  slow. 

They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade, 
But  not,  like  me,  to  nourish  woe ! 

Me,  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 

Alike  admonish  not  to  roam; 
These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 

And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come. 

From   THE    TASK 
[Love  of  Familiar  Scenes] 

Scenes  that  soothed 
Or  charmed  me  young,  no  longer  young,  I  find 
Still  soothing  and  of  power  to  charm  me  still. 
And  witness,  dear  companion  of  my  walks. 
Whose  arm  this  twentieth  winter  I  perceive 
Fast  locked  in  mine,  with  pleasure  such  as  love. 
Confirmed  by  long  experience  of  thy  worth 
And  well-tried  virtues,  could  alone  inspire. 
Witness  a  joy  that  thou  hast  doubled  long. 
Thou  knowest  my  praise  of  nature  most  sincere, 
And  that  my  raptures  are  not  conjured  up 
To  serve  occasions  of  poetic  pomp, 
But  genuine,  and  art  partner  of  them  all. 


WILLIAM   COWPEK  261 

How  oft  ■upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 

Has  slackened  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne 

The  ruffling  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 

While  admiration  feeding  at  the  eye, 

And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 

Thence  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  discerned 

The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside 

His  labouring  team,  that  swerved  not  from  the  track, 

The  sturdy  swain  diminished  to  a  boy. 

Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 

Of  spacious  meads  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er. 

Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course 

Delighted.     There,  fast  rooted  in  their  bank. 

Stand,  never  overlooked,  our  favourite  elms. 

That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  hut; 

While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 

That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  vale. 

The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds; 

Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 

Of  hedge-row  beauties  numberless,  square  tower, 

Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 

Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear; 

Groves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages  remote. 

Scenes  must  be  beautiful  which,  daily  viewed. 

Please  daily,  and  whose  novelty  survives 

Long  knowledge  and  the  scrutiny  of  years : 

Praise  justly  due  to  those  that  I  describe. 

[Man's  Inhumanity] 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness. 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 

Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit. 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 

Might  never  reach  me  more !    My  ear  is  pained. 

My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  filled. 

There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 

It  does  not  feel  for  man ;  the  natural  bond 

Of  brotherhood  is  severed  as  the  flax 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 


262  ENGLISH   POETS 

Not  coloured  like  his  own,  and,  having  power 
T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.    Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations  who  had  else 
Like  kindred  drops  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys; 
And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored, 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot. 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeding  heart, 
Weeps  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  ?    And  what  man  seeing  this. 
And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground. 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep, 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earned. 
No :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave 
And  wear  the  bonds  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home :  then  why  abroad  ? 
And  they  themselves,  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England ;  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free ; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it,  then. 
And  let  it  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of  all  your  empire;  that  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 

[Love  of  England] 

England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still,  ' 
My  country !  and,  while  yet  a  nook  is  left 
Where  English  minds  and  manners  may  be  found, 
Shall  be  constrained  to  love  thee.    Though  thy  clime 


WILLIAM   COWPER  263 

Be  fickle,  and  thy  year,  most  part,  deformed 

With  dripping  rains,  or  withered  by  a  frost, 

I  would  not  yet  exchange  thy  sullen  skies 

And  fields  without  a  flower,  for  warmer  France 

With  all  her  vines;  nor  for  Ausonia's  groves 

Of  golden  fruitage,  and  her  myrtle  bowers.  _ 

To  shake  thy  senate,  and  from  heights  sublime 

Of  patriot  eloquence  to  flash  down  fire 

Upon  thy  foes,  was  never  meant  my  task; 

But  I  can  feel  thy  fortunes,  and  partake 

Thy  joys  and  sorrows  with  as  true  a  heart 

As  any  thunderer  there.     And  I  can  feel 

Thy  follies  too,  and  with  a  just  disdain 

Frown  at  eft'eminates,  whose  very  looks 

Reflect  dishonour  on  the  land  I  love. 

How,  in  the  name  of  soldiership  and  sense, 

Should  England  prosper,  when  such  things,  as  smooth 

And  tender  as  a  girl,  all-essenced  o'er 

With  odours,  and  as  profligate  as  sweet. 

Who  sell  their  laurel  for  a  myrtle  wreath, 

And  love  when  they  should  fight, — when  such  as  these 

Presume  to  lay  their  hand  upon  the  ark 

Of  her  magnificent  and  awful  cause? 

Time  was  when  it  was  praise  and  boast  enough 

In  every  clime,  and  travel  where  we  might. 

That  we  were  born  her  children ;  praise  enough 

To  fill  the  ambition  of  a  private  man. 

That  Chatham's  language  was  his  mother  tongue. 

And  Wolfe's  great  name  compatriot  with  his  own. 

Farewell  those  honours,  and  farewell  with  them 

The  hope  of  such  hereafter!     They  have  fallen 

Each  in  his  field  of  glory:  one  in  arms. 

And  one  in  council — Wolfe  upon  the  lap 

Of  smiling  Victory  that  moment  won. 

And  Chatham,  heart-sick  of  his  country's  shame  I 

They  made  us  many  soldiers.    Chatham  still 

Consulting  England's  happiness  at  home, 

Secured  it  by  an  unforgiving  frown 

If  any  wronged  her.     Wolfe,  where'er  he  fought, 

Put  so  much  of  his  heart  into  his  act. 

That  his  example  had  a  magnet's  force. 

And  all  were  swift  to  follow  whom  all  loved. 


264  ENGLISH   POETS 

Those  suns  are  set.     Oh,  rise  some  other  such  I 
Or  all  that  we  have  left  is  empty  talk 
Of  old  achievements,  and  despair  of  new. 

[COWPER,    THE   EeLIGIOUS   EeCLUSE] 

I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd 

Long  since;  with  many  an  arrow  deep  infixed 

My  panting  side  was  charged,  when  I  withdrew 

To  seek  a  tranquil  death  in  distant  shades. 

There  was  I  found  by  One  who  had  Himself 

Been  hurt  by  th'  archers.     In  His  side  He  bore, 

And   in  His  hands  and  feet,  the  cruel  scars. 

With  gentle  force  soliciting  the  darts. 

He  drew  them  forth,  and  healed,  and  bade  me  liv& 

Since  then,  with  few  associates,  in  remote 

And  silent  woods  I  wander,  far  from  those 

My  former  partners  of  the  peopled  scene. 

With  few  associates,  and  not  wishing  more. 

Here  much  I  ruminate,  as  much  I  may. 

With  other  views  of  men  and  manners  now 

Than  once,  and  others  of  a  life  to  come. 

I  see  that  all  are  wanderers,  gone  astray 

Each  in  his  own  delusions;  they  are  lost 

In  chase  of  fancied  happiness,  still  wooed 

And  never  won ;  dream  after  dream  ensues, 

And  still  they  dream  that  they  shall  still  succeed, 

And  still  are  disappointed :  rings  the  world 

With  the  vain  stir.     I  sum  up  half  mankind, 

And  add  two-thirds  of  the  remaining  half. 

And  find  the  total  of  their  hopes  and  fears 

Dreams,  empty  dreams. 


[The  Arrival  of  the  Post]      /^ 

Hark !  'tis  the  twanging  horn !     O'er  yonder  bridge, 

That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 

Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,   in  which  the  moon 

Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bricht. 

He  comes,  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world. 

With   spattered  boots,   strapped  waist,   and   frozen  locks 

News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back, 

True  to  his  charge,  the  close-packed  load  behind, 


WILLIAM    COWPEK  266 

Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn, 
And,  having  dropped  th'  expected  bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch, 
Cold  and  yet  cheerful;  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some. 
To  him  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks, 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 
Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  atfect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  oh  th'  important  budget,  ushered  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings  ?     Have  our  troops  awaked. 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugged. 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  th'  Atlantic  wave? 
Is  India  free,  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewelled  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace, 
Or  do  We  grind  her  still?    The  grand  debate. 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit. 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all; 
I  burn  to  set  th'  imprisoned  wranglers  free. 
And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 
Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round; 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud-hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 


[The  Bastile] 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  more 
To  France  than  all  her  losses  and  defeats 
Old  or  of  later  date,  by  sea  or  land. 
Her  house  of  bondage  worse  than  that  of  old 
Which  God  avenged  on  Pharaoh — the  Bastile! 


266  ENGLISH   POETS 

Ye  horrid  towers,  th'  abode  of  broken  hearts, 
Ye  dungeons  and  ye  cages  of  despair, 
That  monarehs  have  supplied  from  age  to  age 
With  music  such  as  suits  their  sovereign  ears — 
The  sighs  and  groans  of  miserable  men. 
There's  not  an  English  heart  that  would  not  leap 
To  hear  that  ye  were  fallen  at  last,  to  know 
That  even  our  enemies,  so  oft  employed 
In  forging  chains  for  us,  themselves  were  free: 
For  he  that  values  liberty,  confines 
I  His  zeal  for  her  predominance  within 
[  No  narrow  bounds ;  her  cause  engages  him 
'  Wherever  pleaded ;  'tis  the  cause  of  man. 
There  dwell  the  most  forlorn  of  human  kind, 
Immured  though  unaccused,  condemned  untried. 
Cruelly  spared,  and  hopeless  of  escape. 
There,  like  the  visionary  emblem  seen 
By  him  of  Babylon,  life  standi  a  stump, 
And  filleted  about  with  hoops  of  brass. 
Still  lives,  though  all  its  pleasant  boughs  are  gone. 
To  count  the  hour-bell  and  expect  no  change; 
And  ever  as  the  sullen  sound  is  heard. 
Still  to  reflect  that  though  a  joyless  note 
To  him  whose  moments  all  have  one  dull  pace. 
Ten  thousand  rovers  in  the  world  at  large 
Account  it  music — that  it  summons  some 
To  theatre,  or  jocund  feast,  or  ball ; 
The  wearied  hireling  finds  it  a  release 
From  labour;  and  the  lover,  who  has  chid 
Its  long  delay,  feels  every  welcome  stroke 
Upon  his  heart-strings  trembling  with  delight : 
To  fly  for  refuge  from  distracting  thought 
To  such  amusements  as  ingenious  woe 
Contrives,  hard-shifting  and  without  her  tools — 
To  read  engraven  on  the  muddy  walls, 
In  staggering  types,  his  predecessor's  tale, 
A  sad  memorial,  and  subjoin  his  own; 
To  turn  purveyor  to  an  overgorged 
And  bloated  spider,  till  the  pampered  pest 
Is  made  familiar,  watches  his  approach, 
Comes  at  his  call,  and  serves  him  for  a  friend; 
To  wear  out  time  in  numbering  to  and  fro 


WILLIAM   COWPER  267 

The  studs  that  thick  emboss  his  iron  door, 

Then  downward  and  then  upward,  then  aslant 

And  then  alternate,  with  a  sickly  hope 

By  dint  of  change  to  give  his  tasteless  task 

Some  relish,  till,  the  sum  exactly  found 

In  all  directions,  he  begins  again : — 

Oh  comfortless  existence!  hemmed  aroimd 

With  woes,  which  who  that  suffers  would  not  kneel' 

And  beg  for  exile  or  the  pangs  of  death? 

That  man  should  thus  encroach  on  fellow-man, 

Abridge  him  of  his  just  and  native  rights, 

Eradicate  him,  tear  him  from  his  hold 

Upon  th'  endearments  of  domestic  life 

And  social,  nip  his  fruitfulness  and  use, 

And  doom  him  for  perhaps  an  heedless  word 

To  barrenness  and  solitude  and  tears. 

Moves  indignation;  makes  the  name  of  king 

(Of  king  whom  such  prerogative  can  please) 

As  dreadful  as  the  Manichean  god, 

Adored  through  fear,  strong  only  to  destroy. 

[Meditation  in  Winter] 

The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood, 

The  morning  sharp  and  clear.    But  now  at  noon, 

Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills, 

And  where  the  woods  fence  otf  the  northern  blast. 

The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage, 

And  has  the  warmth  of  May.    The  vault  is  blue 

Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 

The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 

Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale. 

And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled  tower 

Whence  all  the  music.    I  again  perceive 

The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains. 

And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 

The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms. 

Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 

The  roof,  though  moveable  through  all  its  length 

As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 

And  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 

The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 


268  ENGLISH   POETS 

No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought. 

The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 

With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppressed: 

Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 

From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 

Erom  many  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice. 

That  tinkle  in  the  withered  leaves  below. 

Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 

Charms  more  than  silence.    Meditation  here 

May  think  down  hours  to  moments.    Here  the  heart 

May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head, 

And  learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 

Knowledge  and  wisdom,  far  from  being  one, 

Have  ofttimes  no  connection.     Knowledge  dwells, 

In  heads  replete  with  thoughts  of  other  men,  i 

Wisdom  in  minds  attentive  to  their  own. 

Knowledge,  a  rude  unprofitable  mass. 

The  mere  materials  with  which  wisdom  builds, 

Till  smoothed  and  squared  and  fitted  to  its  place. 

Does  but  encumber  whom  it  seems  to  enrich. 

Knowledge  is  proud  that  he  has  learned  so  much; 

Wisdom  is  humble  that  he  knows  no  more. 

Books'  are  not  seldom  talismans  and  spells, 

By  which  the  magic  art  of  shrewder  wits 

Holds  an  unthinking  multitude  enthralled. 

Some  to  the  fascination  of  a  name 

Surrender  judgment  hoodwinked.     Some  the  style 

Infatuates,  and  through  labyrinths  and  wilds 

Of  error  leads  them,  by  a  tune  entranced. 

While  sloth  seduces  more,  too  weak  to  bear 

The  insupportable  fatigue  of  thought. 

And  swallowing  therefore,  without  pause  cr  choice. 

The  total  grist  unsifted,  husks  and  all. 

But  trees,  and  rivulets  whose  rapid  course 

Defies  the  check  of  winter,  haunts  of  deer. 

And  sheepwalks  populous  with  bleating  lambs. 

And  lanes  in  which  the  primrose  ere  her  time 

Peeps  through  the  moss  that  clothes  the  hawthorn  root, 

Deceive  no  student.    Wisdom  there,  and  Truth, 

Not  shy  as  in  the  world,  and  to  be  won 

By  slow  solicitation,  seize  at  once 

The  roving  thought,  and  fix  it  on  themselves. 


WILLIAM    COWPER  269 

[Kindness  to  Animals] 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  list  of  friends, 

Though  graced  with  polished  manners  and  fine  sense, 

Yet  wanting  sensibility,  the  man 

Who  needlessly  sets  foot  upon  a  worm. 

An  inadvertent,  step  may  crush  the  snail 

That  crawls  at  evening  in  the  public  path; 

But  he  that  has  humanity,  forewarned, 

Will  tread  aside  and  let  the  reptile  live. 

The  creeping  vermin,  loathsome  to  the  sight, 

And  charged  perhaps  with  venom,  that  intrudes, 

A  visitor  unwelcome,  into  scenes 

Sacred  to  neatness  and  repose — th'  alcove, 

The  chamber,  or  refectory, — may  die : 

A  necessary  act  incurs  no  blame. 

Not  so  when,  held  within  their  proper  bounds 

And  guiltless  of  offence,  they  range  the  air, 

Or  take  their  pastime  in  the  spacious  field : 

There  they  are  privileged;  and  he  that  hunts 

Or  harms  them  there  is  guilty  of  a  wrong. 

Disturbs  th'  economy  of  Nature's  realm. 

Who,  when  she  formed,  designed  them  an  abode. 

ON  THE  RECEIPT  OF  MY  MOTHER'S  PICTURE 

O  that  those  lips  had  language !     Life  has  passed 
With  me  but  roughly  since  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see. 
The  same  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
'Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  I' 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize. 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 
Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here! 
Who  bidd'st  me  honour  with  an  artless  song. 
Affectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long, 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own: 


270  ENGLISH   POETS 

And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief. 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  revery, 
A  momentary  dream  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother!  when  I  learned  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed? 
Hovered  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowint?  son, 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gav'st  me,  though  unf elt,  a  kiss ; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that,  maternal  smile!  it  answers  'Yes.' 
I  heard  the  bell  tolled  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away, 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 
But  was  it  such  ?     It  was :  where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore. 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more! 
Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern. 
Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 
What  ardently  I  wished  I  long  believed. 
And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  deceived, 
By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 
Dupe  of  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 
Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went. 
Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorfow  spent, 
I  learnt  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 
But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more; 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Eobin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way, 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapped 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capped, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known 
That  once  we  called  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession!     But  the  record  fair 
That  memory  keeps,  of  all  thy  kindness  there. 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 


WILLIAM   COWPER  271 

That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid; 

Thy  morninf?  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home, 

The  biscuit  or  confectionary  plum; 

The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestowed 

By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glowed; 

All  this,  and,  more  endearing  still  than  all, 

Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall, 

Ne'er  roughened  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks 

That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes; 

All  this,  still  legible  on  memory's  page. 

And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age. 

Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 

Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may. 

Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 

Not  scorned  in  heaven  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers, 
The  violet,  the  pink,  the  jessamine, 
I  pricked  them  into  paper  with  a  pin 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Wouldst  softly  speak,  and  stroke  my  head  and  smile), 
Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear. 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them  here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,   as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast, 
The  storms  all  weathered  and  the  ocean  crossed. 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-havened  isle, 
Where  spices  breathe  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods,  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay. 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift,  hast  reached  the  shore 
'Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar,' 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life  long  since  has  anchored  by  thy  side. 


272  ENGLISH   POETS 

But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest, 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distressed. 
Me  howling  blasts  drive  devious,   tempest-tossed, 
Sails  ripped,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost. 
And  day  by  day  some  current's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet,  oh,  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he, 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned  and  rulers  of  the  earth; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  of  parents  passed  into  the  skies! 

And  now,  farewell.     Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wished  is  done : 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t'  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again, 
To  have  renewed  the  joys  that  once  were  mine. 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 
And  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free. 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


TO    MAEY 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past. 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast; 
Ah,  would  that  this  might  be  the  last! 
My  Mary! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow; 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low. 
My  Mary! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store. 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore. 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more. 
My  Mary! 


WILLIAM    COWPER  273 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still,_ 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will. 
My  Mary! 

But  well  thou  playedst  the  housewife's  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 
My  Mary! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light. 
My  Mary! 

For,  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 
My  Mary! 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline. 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign, 
Yet.  gently  pressed,  press  gently  mine. 
My  Mary! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  provest, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  movest 
Upheld  by  two,  yet  still  thou  lovest, 
My  Mary! 

And  still  to  love,  though  pressed  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill. 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still. 

My  Mary! 

But  ah!  by  constant  heed  I  know. 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe, 
My  Mary! 


274  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 
My  Mary! 


THE    CASTAWAY 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
The  Atlantic  billows  roared, 

When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Washed  headlong  from  on  board, 

Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 

His  floating  home  forever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went. 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away; 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted :  nor  his  friends  had  failed 
To  check  the  vessel's  course. 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevailed, 
That,  pitiless  perforce. 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  aflFord; 

And  such  as  storms  allow. 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord. 

Delayed  not  to  bestow. 
But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore, 
Whate'er  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 


WILLIAM    COWPER  275 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seemed,  could  he 

Their  haste  himself  condemn, 
Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 

Alone  could  rescue  them; 
Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 
Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld; 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repelled; 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew. 
Entreated  help,  or  cried  'Adieu !' 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past. 

His  comrades,  who  before 
Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast. 

Could  catch  the  sound  no  more : 
Eor  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 
The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 

No  poet  wept  him;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age. 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear: 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 

I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream. 

Descanting  on  his  fate. 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date : 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 

Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 

No  voice  divine  the  storm  allayed, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatched  from  all  effectual  aid. 

We  perished,  each  alone: 
\  But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelmed  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 


276  ENGLISH   POETS 

WILLIAM   LISLE   BOWLES 
EVENING 

Evening !  as  slow  thy  placid  shades  descend,  > 

Veiling  with  gentlest  hush  the  landscape  still. 
The  lonely  battlement,  the  farthest  hill 
And  wood,  I  think  of  those  who  have  no  friend;  \       i 
Who  now,  perhaps,  by  melancholy  led,  h'^f-^ 

From  the  broad  blaze  of  day,  where  pleasure  flaunts, 
Retiring,  wander  to  the  ringdove's  haunts 
Unseen;  and  watch  the  tints  that  o'er  thy  bed 
Hang  lovely;  oft  to  musing  Fancy's  eye 
Presenting  fairy  vales,  where  the  tired  mind 
Might  rest  beyond  the  murmurs  of  mankind. 
Nor  hear  the  hourly  moans  of  misery! 
Alas  for  man !  that  Hope's  fair  views  the  while 
Should  smile  like  you,  and  perish  as  they  smile! 


DOVER  CLIFFS  '", 


On  these  white  cliffs,  that  calm  above  the  flood 
Uprear  their  shadowing  heads,  and  at  their  feet 
Hear  not  the  surge  that  has  for  ages  beat, 

How  many  a  lonely  wanderer  has  stood ! 

And,  whilst  the  lifted  murmur  met  his  ear. 
And  o'er  the  distant  billows  the  still  eve 
Sailed  slow,  has  thought  of  all  his  heart  must  leave 

To-morrow;   of  the  friends  he  loved  most  dear; 

Of  social  scenes,  from  which  he  wept  to  part! 
Oh !  if,  like  me,  he  knew  how  fruitless  all 
The  thoughts  that  would  full  fain  the  past  recall, 

Soon  would  he  quell  the  risings  of  his  heart, 

And  brave  the  wild  winds  and  unhearing  tide — 

The  world  his  country,  and  his  God  his  guide. 


EOBEET   BURNS  277 

EGBERT    BURNS 
MARY   MORISON 

0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be; 

It  is  the  wished,  the  trysted  hour! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor! 
How  blythely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha'. 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing; 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw: 

Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sighed,  and  said  amang  them  a', 
*Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.' 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 
Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 

Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his 

Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie. 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown! 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

THE  HOLY  FAIR 

Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  morn. 
When  Nature's  face  is  fair, 

1  walked  forth  to  view  the  corn. 
An'  snuff  the  caller  air. 


278  EI^GLISH   POETS 

The  rising  sun,  owre  Galston  muirs, 
Wi'  glorious  light  was  glintin; 

The  hares  were  hirplin  down  the  furs, 
The  lav'rocks  they  were  chantin 

Fu'  sweet  that  day. 

As  lightsomely  I  glowered  abroad, 

To  see  a  scene  sae  gay. 
Three  hizzies,  early  at  tlbe  road. 

Cam  skelpin  up  the  way. 
Twa  had  manteeles  o'  dolefu'  black. 

But  ane  wi'  lyart  lining; 
The  third,  that  gaed  a  wee  a-back. 

Was  in  the  fashion  shining 

Fu'  gay  that  day. 

The  twa  appeared  like  sisters  twin. 

In  feature,  form,  an'  claes; 
Their  visage  withered,  lang  an'  thin, 

An'  sour  as  onie  slaes: 
The  third  cam  up,  hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As  light  as  onie  lambie. 
An'  wi'  a  curchie  low  did  stoop. 

As  soon  as  e'er  she  saw  me, 

Fu'  kind  that  day. 

Wi'  bonnet  aff,  quoth  I,  'Sweet  lass, 

I  think  ye  seem  to  ken  me; 
I'm  sure  I've  seen  that  bonie  face, 

But  yet  I  oanna  name  ye.' 
Quo'  she,  an'  laughin  as  she  spak. 

An'  taks  me  by  the  ban's, 
'Ye,  for  my  sake,  hae  gi'en  the  feck 

Of  a'  the  Ten  Comman's 

A  screed  some  day. 

'My  name  is  Fun — your  cronie  dear, 

The  nearest  friend  ye  hae; 
An'  this  is  Superstition  here. 

An'  that's  Hypocrisy. 


EGBERT  BURNS  279 

I'm  gaun  to  Mauchline  Holy  Fair, 

To  spend  an  hour  in  daffin: 
Gin  ye'll  go  there,  yon  runkled  pair. 

We  will  get  famous  laughin 

At  them  this  day.' 

Quoth  I,  'Wi'  a'  my  heart,  I'll  do  't : 

I'll  get  my  Sunday's  sark  on, 
An'  meet  you  on  the  holy  spot; 

Faith,  we'se  hae  fine  remarkin!' 
Then  I  gaed  hame  at  crowdie-time, 

An'  soon  I  made  me  ready; 
For  roads  were  clad  frae  side  to  side 

Wi'  monie  a  wearie  body, 

In  droves  that  day. 

Here  farmers  gash,  in  ridin  graith, 

Gaed  hoddin  by  their  cotters; 
There  swankies  young,  in  braw  braid-claith, 

Are  springin  owre  the  gutters. 
The  lasses,  skelpin  barefit,  thrang. 

In  silks  an'  scarlets  glitter; 
Wi'  sweet-milk  cheese  in  monie  a  whang, 

An'  farls  baked  wi'  butter, 

Fu'  crump  that  day. 


When  by  the  plate  we  set  our  nose, 

Weel  heaped  up  wi'  ha'pence, 
A  greedy  glowr  black-bonnet  throws, 

An'  we  maun  draw  our  tippence. 
Then  in  we  go  to  see  the  show: 

On  every  side  they're  gath'rin. 
Some  carrying  dails,  some  chairs  an'  stools, 

An'  some  are  busy  bleth'rin 

Right  loud  that  day. 

Here  stands  a  shed  to  fend  the  showers. 

An'  screen  our  countra  gentry, 
There  Racer  Jess,  and  twa-three  whores, 

Are  blinkin'  at  the  entry. 


280  ENGLISH   POETS 

Here  sits  a  raw  of  tittlin'  jads, 
Wi'  heavin  breasts   an'  bare  neck; 

An'  there  a  batch  o'  wabster  lads, 
Blackguarding  frae  Kilmarnock, 

For  fun  this  day. 

Here  some  are  thinkin  on  their  sins. 

An'  some  upo'  their  claes; 
Ane  curses  feet  that  fyled  his  shins, 

Anither  sighs  and  prays; 
On  this  hand  sits  a  chosen  swatch, 

Wi'  screwed-up  grace-proud  faces; 
On  that  a  set  o'  chaps,  at  watch, 

Thrang  winkin  on  the  lasses 

To  chairs  that  day. 

O  happy  is  that  man  an'  blest 

(Nae  wonder  that  it  pride  him!) 
Whase  ain  dear  lass,  that  he  likes  best, 

Comes  clinkin  down  beside  him! 
Wi'  arm  reposed  on  the  chair-back. 

He  sweetly  does  compose  him ; 
Which,  by  degrees,  slips  round  her  neck, 

An's  loof  upon  her  bosom, 

Unkend  that  day. 

Now  a'  the  congregation  o'er 

Is  silent  expectation ; 
For  Moodie  speels  the  holy  door 

Wi'  tidings  o'  damnation. 
Should  Hornie,  as  in  ancient  days, 

'Mang  sons  o'  God  present  him. 
The  vera  sight  o'  Moodie's  face 

To  's  ain  het  hame  had  sent  him 

Wi'  fright  that  day. 

Hear  how  he  clears  the  points  o'  faith 
Wi'  rattlin  an  wi'  thumpin! 

Now  meekly  calm,  now  wild  in  wrath. 
He's  stampin   an'  he's  jumpin! 


ROBERT   BURNS  281 

His  lengthened  chin,  his  turned-up  snout, 

His  eldritch  squeel  an'  gestures, 
O  how  they  fire  the  heart  devout — 

Like  cantharidian  plaisters, 

On  sic  a  day! 

But  hark!  the  tent  has  changed  its  voice; 

There's  peace  an'  rest  nae  langer; 
For  a'  the  real  judges  rise, 

They  canna  sit  for  anger: 
Smith  opens  out  his  cauld  harangues 

On  practice  and  on  morals; 
An'  a£F  the  godly  pour  in  thrangs. 

To  gie  the  jars  an'  barrels 

A  lift  that  day. 

What  signifies  his  barren  shine 

Of  moral  pow'rs  an'  reason? 
His  English  style  an'  gesture  fine 

Are  a'  clean  out  o'  season. 
Like  Socrates  or  Antonine, 

Or  some  auld  pagan  heathen. 
The  moral  man  he  does  define, 

But  ne'er  a  word  o'  faith  in 

That's  right  that  day. 

In  guid  time  comes  an  antidote 

Against  sic  poisoned  nostrum; 
For  Peebles,  frae  the  water-fit. 

Ascends  the  holy  rostrum: 
See,  up  he's  got  the  word  o'  God, 

An'  meek  an'  mim  has  viewed  it, 
While  Common  Sense  has  taen  the  road. 

An'  aff,  an'  up  the  Cowgate 

Fast,  fast  that  day. 

Wee  Miller  niest  the  guard  relieves. 

An'  orthodoxy  raibles, 
Tho'  in  his  heart  he  weel  believes 

An'  thinks  it  auld  wives'  fables; 


282  ENGLISH   POETS 

But  faith!  the  birkie  wants  a  manse, 

So  cannilie  he  hums  them, 
Altho'  his  carnal  wit  an'  sense 

Like  hafflins-wise  o'ercomes  him 

At  times  that  day. 

Now  butt  an'  ben  the  chana:e-house  fills 

Wi'  yill-eaup  commentators; 
Here's  crying  out  for  bakes  an'  gills, 

An'  there  the  pint-stowp  clatters; 
While  thick  an'  thrang,  an'  loud  an'  lang, 

Wi'  logic  an'  wi'  Scripture, 
They  raise  a  din  that  in  the  end 

Is  like  to  breed  a  rupture 

O'  wrath  that  day. 

Leeze  me  on  drink!  it  gies  us  mair 

Than  either  school  or  college; 
It  kindles  wit,  it  waukens  lear, 

It  pangs  us  fou  o'  knowledge. 
Be  't  whisky-gill  or  penny-wheep, 

Or  onie  stronger  potion, 
It  never  fails,  on  drinkin  deep, 

To  kittle  up  our  notion, 

By  night  or  day. 

The  lads  an'  lasses,  blythely  bent 

To  mind  baith  saul  an'  body. 
Sit  round  the  table  weel  content, 

An'  steer  about  the  toddy. 
On  this  ane's  dress  an'  that  ane's  leuk 

They're  makin  observations; 
While  some  are  cozie  i'  the  neuk, 

An'  formin  assignations 

To  meet  some  day. 

But  now  the  Lord's  ain  trumpet  touts. 

Till  a'  the  hills  are  rairin, 
And  echoes  back  return  the  shouts; 

Black  Russell  is  na  spairin: 


EOBEET   BURNS  283 

His  piercin  words,  like  Highlan'  swords, 

Divide  the  joints  an'  marrow; 
His  talk  o'  hell,  whare  devils  dwell. 

Our  verra  'sauls  does  harrow' 

Wi'  fright  that  day! 

A  vast,  unbottomed,  boundless  pit. 

Filled  fou  o'  lowin  brunstane, 
Whase   ragm  flame   an'   scorchin  heat 

Wad  melt  the  hardest  whun-stane ! 
The  half-asleep  start  up  wi'  fear, 

An'  think  they  hear  it  roarin, 
When  presently   it   does   appear 

'Twas  but  some  neebor  snorin. 

Asleep  that  day. 

'Twad  be  owre  lang  a  tale  to  tell 

How  monie  stories  passed, 
An'  how  they  crouded  to  the  yill. 

When  they  were  a'  dismissed ; 
How  drink  gaed  round,  in  cogs  an'  caups, 

Amang  the  furms  an'  benches, 
An'  cheese  an'  bread,  frae  women's  laps. 

Was  dealt  about  in  lunches 

An'  dawds  that  day. 

In  comes  a  gawsie,  gash  guidwife. 

An'  sits  down  by  the  fire. 
Syne  draws  her  kebbuck  an'  her  knife; 

The  lasses  they  are  shyer; 
The  auld  guidmen  about  the  grace 

Frae  side  to  side  they  bother. 
Till  some.ane  by  his  bonnet  lays 

And  gi'es  them  't,  like  a  tether, 

Fu'  lang  that  day. 

Waesucks  for  him  that  gets  nae  lass, 

Or  lasses  that  hae  naething! 
Sma'  need  has  he  to  say  a  grace, 

Or  melvie  his  braw  claithing! 


284  ENGLISH   POETS 

0  wives,  be  mindfu',  ance  yoursel 
How  bonie  lads  ye  wanted. 

An'  dinna  for  a  kebbuck-heel 
Let  lasses  be  affronted 

On  sic  a  day! 

Now  Clinkumbell,  wi'  rattlin  tow. 

Begins  to  jow  an'  croon; 
Some  swagger  hame  the  best  tbey  dow, 

Some  wait  the  afternoon. 
At  slaps  the  billies  halt  a  blink. 

Till  lasses  strip  their  shoon; 
Wi'  faith  an'  hope,  an'  love  an'  drink, 

They're  a'  in  famous  tune 

For  crack  that  day. 

How  monie  hearts  this  day  converts 

O'  sinners  and  o'  lasses ! 
Their  hearts  o'  stane,  gin  night,   are  gaen 

As  saft  as  onie  flesh  is. 
There's  some  are  fou  o'  love  divine. 

There's  some  are  fou  o'  brandy; 
An'  monie  jobs  that  day  begin, 

May  end  in  houghmagandie 

Some  ither  day. 

TO    A   LOUSE 

ON    SEEING    ONE    ON    A    LADY's    BONNET    AT    CHURCH 

Ha!  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie? 
Your  impudence  protects*  you  sairly; 

1  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 

Ower  gauze  and  lace, 
Tho',  faith,  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 
On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin,  blastit  wonner, 
Detested,  shunned  by  saunt  an'  sinner. 
How  daur  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady! 
Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner 

On  some  poor  body. 


EGBERT   BURNS  285 

Swith!  in  some  beggar's  hauffet  squattle; 
There  ye  may  creep  and  sprawl  and  sprattle 
Wi'  ither  kindred  jumping  cattle, 

In  shoals  and  nations, 
Whare  horn  nor  bane  ne'er  daur  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  baud  you  there!  ye're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rils,  snug  an'  tight; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet!  ye'll  no  be  right 

Till  ye've  got  on  it, 
The  vera  tapmost,  tow'ring  height 

O'  Miss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out. 
As  plump  an'  grey  as  onie  grozet; 

0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet 

Or  fell  red  smeddum! 
I'd  gie  ye  sic  a  hearty  dose  o't 

Wad  dress  your  droddum! 

1  wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy. 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On's  wyliecoat; 
But  Miss's  fine  Lunardi — fie! 
How  daur  ye  do't! 

O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head, 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makin! 
Thae  winks  an'  finger-ends,  I  dread. 

Are  notice  takin! 

O  wad  some  Power  the  giftie  gie  us 

To  see  oursels  as  ithers  see  us! 

It  wad  frae  monie  a  blunder  free  us, 

An'  foolish  notion; 
What  airs  in  dress  an'  gait  wad  lea'e  ua. 

An'  ev'n  devotion ! 


286  ENGLISH   POETS 


From  EPISTLE   TO   J.   LAPEAIK 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense, 

But  just  a  rhymer  like  by  chance, 

An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence; 

Yet  what  the  matter? 
Whene'er  my  Muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  crHic-folk  may  cock  their  nose, 
And  say,  'How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose. 

To  mak  a  sang?' 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes, 

Ye're  maybe  wrang. 

What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools, 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools? 
If  honest  Nature  made  you  fools. 

What  sairs  your  grammers? 
Ye'd  better  taen  up  spades  and  shools 

Or  knappin-hammers. 

A  set  o'  dull,  conceited  hashes 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes; 
They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses. 

Plain  truth  to  speak; 
An'  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassus 

By  dint  o'  Greek! 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire. 

That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire; 

Then,  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart. 
My  Muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire. 

May  touch  the  heart. 


ROBEET   BURNS  287 


THE   COTTER'S    SATURDAY  NIGHT 

My  loved,  my  honoured,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays; 
With  honest  pride,  I  scorn  each  selfish  end. 

My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise: 

To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays, 
The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequestered  scene; 

The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways. 
What  Aiken  in  a  cottage  would  have  been; 
Ah,  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there,  I  ween  I 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh; 

The  shortening  winter-day  is  near  a  close; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh; 

The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose : 

The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labour  goes — 
This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end, — 

Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes. 
Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hameward  bend. 

At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree; 
Th'  expectant  wee-things,  toddlin,  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin'  noise  and  glee. 

His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonilie. 
His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile. 

The  lisping  infant,  prattling  on  his  knee. 
Does  a'  his  weary  kiaugh  and  care  beguile, 
And  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  and  his  toil. 

Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  in. 

At  service  out  amang  the  farmers  roun'; 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin. 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town. 

Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman-grown. 
In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e. 

Comes  hame,  perhaps  to  shew  a  braw  new  gown, 
Or  deposite  her  sair-won  penny-fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear  if  they  in  hardship  be. 


288  ENGLISH   POETS 

With  joy  unfeigned,  brothers  and  sisters  meet, 

And  each  for  other's  weelfare  kindly  spiers; 
The  social  hours,  swift-winged,  unnoticed  fleet; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears. 

The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years; 
Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 

The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  and  her  sheers, 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new; 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due: 

Their  master's  and  their  mistress's  command 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey. 
And  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 

And  ne'er,  tho'  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play: 

'And  O  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway. 
And  mind  your  duty  duly,  morn  and  night; 

Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 
Implore  His  counsel  and  assisting  might: 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord  aright!' 

But  hark !  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door. 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same. 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  came  o'er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 
Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek; 

With  heart-struck  anxious  care  enquires  his  name, 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak; 
Weel-pleased  the  mother  hears  it's  nae  wild,  worthless  rake. 

With  kindly  welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben : 

A  strappin'  youth,  he  takes  the  mother's  eye; 
Blythe  Jenny  sees  the  visit's  no  ill-taen; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  ploughs,  _and  kye. 

The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy, 
But  blate  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel  behave; 

The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  youth  sae  bashfu'  and  sae  grave, 
Weel-pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like  the  lave. 

Oh  happy  love,  where  love  like  this  is  found! 

Oh  heart-felt  raptures!  bliss  beyond  compare  I 
I've  paced  much  this  weary,  mortal  round. 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare: 


ROBERT   BURNS  289 

If  Heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale. 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  evening  gale.' 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart, 

A  wretch!  a  villain!  lost  to  love  and  truth! 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  ensnaring  art. 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth? 

Curse  on  his  perjured  arts!  dissembling  smooth  I 
Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled? 

Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  ruth. 
Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child? 
Then  paints  the  ruined  maid,  and  their  distraction  wild? 

But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board: 

The  healsome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food : 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford. 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood. 

The  dame  brings  forth,  in  complimental  mood. 
To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hained  kebbuck,  fell; 

And  aft  he's  prest,  and  aft  he  ca's  it  guid; 
The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell 
How  't  was  a  towmond  auld  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'-Bible,  ance  his  father's  pride; 

His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 
His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  and  bare; 

Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide. 
He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care. 
And  'Let  us  worship  God!'  he  says,  with  solemn  air. 

They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim: 
Perhaps  'Dundee's'  wild-warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  'Martyrs,'  worthy  of  the  name; 


290  ENGLISH   POETS 

Or  noble  'Elgin'  beets  the  heavenward  flame. 
The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays. 

Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame; 
The  tickled  ears  no  heart-felt  raptures  raise; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page; 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high; 
Or  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny; 

Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 
Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire; 

Or  Job's  pathetic  plaint  and  wailing  cry; 
Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme: 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He  Who  bore  in  Heaven  the  second  name 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  His  head; 

How  His  first  followers  and  servants  sped; 
The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land ; 

How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished, 
Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand. 
And  heard  great  Bab'lon's  doom  pronounced  by  Heaven's 
command. 

Then  kneeling  down  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King, 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays; 
Hope  'springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,' 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days, 

There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays, 
No  more  to  sigh  or  shed  the  bitter  tear. 

Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise, 
In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear, 
While  circling  Time  moves  round  in  an  eternal  sphere. 

Compared  with  this,  how  poor  Religion's  pride, 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method  and  of  art, 
When  men  display  to  congregations  wide 

Devotion's  ev'ry  grace  except  the  heart! 


EOBEET   BURNS  291 

The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert, 
The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 
May  hear,  well  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul, 
And  in  His  Book  of  Life  the  inmates  poor  enroll. 

Then  homeward  all  take  off  their  several  way; 

The  youngling  cottagers  retire  to  rest; 
The  parent-pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 

And  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest. 
And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 

Would,  in  the  way  His  wisdom  sees  the  best, 
For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide. 
But  chiefly  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 

From  scenes  like  these  old  Scotia's  grandeur  springs. 
That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad: 

Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 
*An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God.' 
And  certes  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road. 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind: 

What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load. 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind. 
Studied  in  arts  of  heljj  in  wickedness  refined! 

O  Scotia!  my  dear,  my  native  soil! 

For  whom  my  warmest  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  blest  with  health  and  peace  and  sweet  content ! 

And  O  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 
From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile ! 

Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 
A  virtuous  populace  may  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much-loved  isle. 

O  Thou,  Who  poured  the  patriotic  tide 

That  streamed  thro'  Wallace's  undaunted  heart, 

Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride, 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part! 


292  ENGLISH   POETS 

(The  patriot's  God  peculiarly  Thou  art, 
His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward !) 

Oh  never,  never  Scotia's  realm  desert, 
But  still  the  patriot  and  the  patriot-bard 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard! 


TO   A   MOUSE 

ON    TURNING    HER    UP    IN    HER    NEST    WITH    THE    PLOUGH, 

NOVEMBER^    1785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie, 

0  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle! 

1  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murdering  pattle ! 


I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  Nature's  social  union. 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor,  earth-born  companion. 

An'  fellow-mortal! 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve; 
What  then?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live! 
A  daimen  icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request; 
I'll  get  a  blessin'  wi'  the  lave. 

An'  never  miss  't! 


Thy  wee-bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin! 
An'  naething  now  to  big  a  new  ane, 

O'  foggage  green! 
Au'  bleak  December's  win's  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  an'  keen! 


EGBERT   BURNS  293 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste. 
An'  weary  winter  comin  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell — 
Till,  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  passed 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 

Has  cost  thee  monie  a  weary  nibble! 

Now  thou's  turned  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble. 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble. 

An'  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But  mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain: 
The  best-laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 

Gang  aft  agley, 
An'  lea'e  us  naught  but  grief  an'  pain 

For  promised  joy ! 

Still,  thou  art  blest  compared  wi'  me! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee: 
But  och !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear! 
An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear! 


TO   A   MOUNTAIN   DAISY 

ON    TURNING    ONE    DOWN    WITH    THE    PLOUGH    IN    APRIL,    1786 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  floVr, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour. 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r. 

Thou  bonie  gem. 

Alas!  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet, 
The  bonie  lark,  companion  meet. 


294  ENGLISH   POETS 

Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet, 

Wi'  spreckled  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blythe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  reared  above  the  parent-earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sunward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid. 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust, 
TiU  she,  like  thee,  all  soiled  is  laid. 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starred! 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n. 


ROBERT   BURNS  295 

By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n 

To  mis'ry's  brink; 
Till,  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He,  ruined,  sink! 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate. 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date; 
Stern  Ruin's  plough-share  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 

Shall  be  thy  doom ! 


EPISTLE   TO   A   YOUNG   FRIEND 

I  lang  hae  thought,  my  youthfu'  friend 

A  something  to  have  sent  you, 
Tho'  it  should  serve  nae  ither  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento. 
But  how  the  subject-theme  may  gang. 

Let  time  and  chance  determine; 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang. 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

Ye'll  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad; 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'll  find  mankind  an  unco  squad. 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye: 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

Ev'n  when  your  end's  attained; 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  nought. 

Where  ev'ry  nerve  is  strained. 

I'll  no  say  men  are  villains  a'; 

The  real,  harden'd  wicked, 
Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law. 

Are  to  a  few  restricket; 
But,  och !  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

An'  little  to  be  trusted; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake, 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted! 


296  ENGLISH   POETS 

Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife, 

Their  fate  we  shouldna  censure, 
For  still  th'  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer; 
A  man  may  hae  an  honest  heart, 

Tho'  poortith  hourly  stare  him; 
A  man  may  tak  a  neebor's  part, 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 

Aye  free,  aff-han',  your  story  tell, 

When  wi  a  bosom  crony; 
But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yoursel  as  weel's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection; 
But  keek  thro'  ev'ry  other  man, 

Wi'  sharpen'd,  sly  inspection. 

The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love. 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Tho'  naething  should  divulge  it; 
I  wave  the  quantum  o'  the  sin, 

The  hazard  of  concealing; 
But,  och!  it  hardens  a'  within, 

And  petrifies  the  feeling! 

To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile. 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her; 
And  gather  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honour; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Nor  for  a  train  attendant; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip. 
To  baud  the  wretch  in  order; 

But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip. 
Let  that  aye  be  your  border; 


EGBERT   BURNS  297 

Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause — 

Debar  a'  side-pretences; 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere, 

Must  sure  become  the  creature; 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  ev'n  the  rigid  feature; 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range. 

Be  complaisance  extended; 
An  atheist-laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  offended! 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring. 

Religion  may  be  blinded; 
Or,  if  she  gie  a  random  sting. 

It  may  be  little  minded; 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest-driv'n — 

A  conscience  but  a  canker, 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  Heav'n 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor! 

Adieu,  dear  amiable  Youth! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting! 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth. 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting! 
In  ploughman  phrase,  'God  send  you  speed/ 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser; 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede. 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser! 


A    BARD'S  EPITAPH 

Is  there  a  whim-inspired  fool, 

Owre  fast  for  thought,  owre  hot  for  rule, 

Owre  blate  to  seek,  owre  proud  to  snool? 

Let  him  draw  near; 
And  owre  this  grassy  heap  sing  dool. 

And  drap  a  tear. 


298  ENGLISH   POETS 

Is  there  a  bard  of  rustic  song, 

Who,  noteless,  steals  the  crowds  among, 

That  weekly  this  area  throng? — 

Oh,  pass  not  by! 
But  with  a  frater-feeling  strong 

Here  heave  a  sigh. 

Is  there  a  man  whose  judgment  clear 
Can  others  teach  the  course  to  steer. 
Yet  runs  himself  life's  mad  career 

Wild  as  the  wave? — 
Here  pause — and  thro'  the  starting  tear 

Survey  this  grave. 

The  poor  inhabitant  below 

Was  quick  to  learn  and  wise  to  know, 

And  keenly  felt  the  friendly  glow 

And  softer  flame; 
But  thoughtless  follies  laid  him  low, 

And  stain'd  his  name! 

Reader,  attend!   whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole. 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole 

In  low  pursuit; 
EJnow,  prudent,  cautious  self-control 

Is  wisdom's  root. 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    UNCO    GUID 
OR  THE  RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebour's  fauts  and  folly! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill. 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water. 
The  heapet  happer's  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter, — 


EGBERT   BURNS  299 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals 
That  frequent  pass  douce  Wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  Folly's  portals; 
I  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes 

Would  here  propone  defences — 
Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes, 

Their  failings  and  mischances. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compar'd, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer; 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard. 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave. 

That  purity  ye  pride  in, 
And  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hidin. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop, 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse 

That  still  eternal  gallop: 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail. 

It  maks  an  unco  leeway. 

See  Social  Life  and  Glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking. 
Till,  quite  transmugrify'd,  they're  grown 

Debauchery  and  Drinking: 
O  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences, 
Or — ^your  more  dreaded  hell  to  state^ — 

Damnation  of  expenses! 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames. 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces. 
Before  ye  gie  poor  Frailty  names. 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases: 


300  ENGLISH   POETS 

A  dear-lov'd  lad,  convenience  snug, 
A  treach'rous  inclination — 

But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug, 
Ye're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man. 

Still  gentler  sister  woman; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wrang. 

To  step  aside  is  human: 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark. 

The  moving  why  they  do  it; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias: 
Then  at  the  balance,  let's  be  mute. 

We  never  can  adjust  it; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 


JOHN   ANDERSON,    MY   JO 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent. 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 

Your  bonie  brow  was  brent: 
But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo ! 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither; 
And  monie  a  cantie  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

And  hand  in  hand  we'll  go. 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo ! 


ROBERT  BURNS  301 


THE  LOVELY  LASS  OF  INVERNESS 

The  lovely  lass  of  Inverness, 
Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see; 
For  e'en  to  morn  she  cries,  'Alas!' 
And  aye  the  saut  tear  blin's  her  e'e: 

*Drumossie  moor — Drumossie  day — 
A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 
My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

'Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay. 
Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see: 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a  woman's  e'e! 

'Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 

A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be; 

For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 

That  ne'er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee!' 


A   RED,    RED    ROSE 

O,  my  luv  is  like  a  red,  red  rose, 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June: 

O,  my  luv  is  like  the  melodie 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry: 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear. 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun; 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 


302  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luvel 
And  fare  thee  weel  awhile! 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 
Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile! 


AULD    LANG    SYNE 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  never  brought  to  mind? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 
And  auld  lang  syne? 

Chorus: 

Eor  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 
We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet. 

For  auld  lang  syne! 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp. 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine; 
And  we'll  take  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet 

For  auld  lang  syne! 

We  twa  hae  run  about  the  braes, 

And  pou'd  the  go  wans  fine; 
But  we've  wander'd  monie  a  weary  fit 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

We  twa  hae  paidl'd  in  the  bum, 

Erae  morning  sun  till  dine; 
But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd 

Sin'  auld  lang  syne. 

And  there's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fiere, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid-willie  waught, 

For  auld  lang  syne! 


KOBERT  BURNS  303 


SWEET  AETON 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Af ton,  among  thy  green  braes ! 
Flow  gently,  I'll  sing  thee  a  song  in  thy  praise! 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream ! 

Thou  stock-dove,  whose  echo  resounds  through  the  glen. 
Ye  wild  whistling  blackbirds  in  yon  thorny  den, 
Thou  green-crested  lapwing,  thy  screaming  forbear, 
I  charge  you  disturb  not  my  slumbering  fair! 

How  lofty,  sweet  Afton,  thy  neighbouring  hills, 

Far  marked  with  the  courses  of  clear  winding  rills! 

There  daily  I  wander  as  noon  rises  high, 

My  flocks  and  my  Mary's  sweet  cot  in  my  eye. 

How  pleasant  thy  banks  and  green  valleys  below, 
Where  wild  in  the  woodlands  the  primroses  blow! 
There  oft,  as  mild  evening  weeps  over  the  lea. 
The  sweet-scented  birk  shades  my  Mary  and  me. 

Thy  crystal  stream,  Afton,  how  lovely  it  glides, 
And  winds  by  the  cot  where  my  Mary  resides! 
How  wanton  thy  waters  her  snowy  feet  lave. 
As  gathering  sweet  flowerets  she  stems  thy  clear  wave! 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes! 
Flow  gently,  sweet  river,  the  theme  of  my  lays! 
My  Mary's  asleep  by  thy  murmuring  stream, 
Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  disturb  not  her  dream! 


THE   HAPPY   TRIO 

O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut, 
And  Rob  and  Allan  cam  to  see; 

Three  blyther  hearts,  that  lee-lang  night. 
Ye  wad  na  found  in  Christendie. 


304  ENGLISH   POETS 

Chorus : 

We  are  na  fou,  we're  nae  that  fou, 

But  just  a  drappie  in  our  e'e; 
The  cock  may  craw,  the  day  may  daw, 

And  ay  we'll  taste  the  barley  bree ! 

Here  are  we  met,  three  merry  boys. 
Three  merry  boys,  I  trow,  are  we; 

And  mony  a  night  we've  merry  been. 
And  mony  mae  we  hope  to  be! 

It  is  the  moon,  I  ken  her  horn. 
That's  blinkin  in  the  lift  sae  hie; 

She  shines  sae  bright  to  wyle  us  hame. 
But,  by  my  sooth,  she'll  wait  a  wee! 

Wha  first  shall  rise  to  gang  awa, 
A  cuckold,  coward  loun  is  he! 

Wha  first  beside  his  chair  shall  fa', 
He  is  the  King  amang  us  three! 


TO    MAKY   IN   HEAVEN 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray. 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn. 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary !  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget. 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love? 
Eternity  cannot  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past, 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace — 

Ah!  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last! 


EGBERT   BURNS  305 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green; 
The  fragrant  birch  and  hawthorn  hoar 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene: 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  pressed. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray. 
Till  too,  too  soon  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes. 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care! 
Time  but  th'  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 


TAM  0'  SHANTER:   A  TALE 

Of  Brownyis  and  of  Bogillis  full  is  this  buke. 

— Gawin  Douglas. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street. 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet. 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate, 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy. 
An'  getting  fou  and  unco  happy. 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles. 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame. 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses 
Eor  honest  men  and  bonie  lasses). 

G  Tam,  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise 
As  taen  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice! 


306  ENGLISH   POETS 

She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 

A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum, 

That  frae  November  till  October 

Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober; 

That  ilka  melder  wi'  the  miller 

Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 

That  ev'ry  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on 

The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on; 

That  at  the  Lord's  house,  even  on  Sunday, 

Thou  drank  wi'  Kirkton  Jean  till  Monday. 

She  prophesied  that,  late  or  soon. 

Thou  would  be  found  deep  drowned  in  Doon, 

Or  catched  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk 

By  Alloway's  auld,  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames,  it  gars  me  greet 
To  think  how  monie  counsels  sweet, 
How  monie  lengthened,  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises! 

But  to  our  tale.     Ae  market-night 
Tam  had  got  planted  unco  right, 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely; 
And  at  his  elbow,  Souter  Johnie, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  cronie : 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  very  brither; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  and  clatter. 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better; 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  secret  favours,  sweet  and  precious; 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories. 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus; 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy. 
E'en  drowned  himself  amang  the  nappy. 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure. 
The  minutes  winged  their  way  wi'  pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread — 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 


EGBERT   BUENS  307 

Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 

A  moment  white — then  melts  forever; 

Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form, 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide : 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride; 

That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane. 

That  dreary  hour  Tam  mounts  his  beast  in. 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in 

As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  't  wad  blawn  its  last: 

The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast; 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallowed; 

Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellowed: 

That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 

The  Deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 
Weel-mounted  on  his  gray  mare  Meg, 

A  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tam  skelpit  on  thro'  dub  and  mire. 

Despising  wind  and  rain  and  fire; 

Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet, 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet. 
While  glow'ring  round  wi'  prudent  cares. 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares : 
Ivirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaists  and  houlets  nightly  cry. 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoored; 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck-bane; 
And  thro'  the  whins  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murdered  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hanged  hersel. 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  thro'  the  woods; 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll; 
When,  glimmering  thro'  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seemed  in  a  bleeze: 


ENGLISH  POETS 

Thro'  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing, 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn, 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn ! 
Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquebae,  we'll  face  the  Devil ! 
The  swats  sae  reamed  in  Tammie's  noddle. 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  deils  a  boddle. 
But  Maggie  stood,  right  sair  astonished. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonished, 
Slie  ventured  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  vow !    Tarn  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance; 
Nae  cotillion,  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east. 
There  sat  Auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  towsie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge : 
He  screwed  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. 
Coffins  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 
That  shawed  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses, 
And,  by  some  devilish  cantraip  sleight. 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light: 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note,  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes,  in  gibbet-aims; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee,  unchristened  bairns; 
A  thief,  new-cutted  frae  a  rape — 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red-rusted; 
Five  scimitars,  wi'  murder  crusted; 
A  garter  which  a  babe  had  strangled; 
A  knife  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft — 
The  grey-hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft; 
Wi'  mair  of  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowered,  amazed  and  curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious: 


EGBERT   BURNS  309 

The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew, 

The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 

They  reeled,  they  set,  they  crossed,  they  cleekit, 

Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit, 

And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 

And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark! 

Now  Tarn,  O  Tam !  had  thae  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping  in  their  teens! 
Their   sarks,   instead   o'   creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen-hunder  linen  I 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdles, 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonie  burdies! 

But  withered  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Louping  and  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach ! 

But  Tam  kend  what  was  what  fu''brawlie: 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  wawlie, 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
Lang  after  kend  on  Carrick  shore 
(For  monie  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 
An'  perished  monie  a  bonie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear. 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear). 
Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  harn. 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn. 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. — 
Ah,  little  kend  thy  reverend  grannie 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches). 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  o'  witches ! 

But  here  my  Muse  her  wing  maun  cour; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power: 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang 
(A  souple  jad  she  was  and  Strang), 
And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitched, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enriched. 
Even  Satan  glowered  and  fidged  fu'  fain, 
And  botched  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main; 


310  ENGLISH   POETS 

Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tarn  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  'Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!' 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark ; 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke. 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes. 
When,  pop!  she  starts  before  their  nose; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When   'Catch  the  thief  resounds  aloud ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  monie  an  eldritch  skriech  and  hollo. 

Ah,  Tam !  ah,  Tam !  thou'll  get  thy  f airin  I 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman ! 
Now  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss — 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross ! 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle! 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  grey  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump, 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed: 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined. 
Or  cutty  sarks  run  in  your  mind. 
Think  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear; 
Eemember  Tam  o'  Shanter'.s  mare. 


KOBEET   BURNS  311 


AE   FOND   KISS 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever! 
Ae  farewell,  and  then  forever! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me. 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy; 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy: 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her, 
Love  but  her  and  love  forever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly. 
Never  met,  or  never  parted. 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare-thee-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure! 
Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 
Ae  farewell,  alas,  forever ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee; 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 


DimCAN   GRAY 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!). 
On  blythe  Yule  Night  when  we  were  fou 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!). 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high. 
Looked  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh — 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't! 


312  ENGLISH   POETS 

Duncan  fleeched,   and  Duncan  prayed 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!); 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  craig 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!). 
Duncan  sighed  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  an'  blin', 
Spak  o'  lowpin  o'er  a  linn — 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't! 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't !) : 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!). 

'Shall  I,  like  a  fool,'  quoth  he, 

'For  a  haughty  hizzie  die? 

She  may  gae  to — France  for  me!' — 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't! 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!): 

Meg  grew  sick  as  he  grew  hale 
(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!); 

Something  in  her  bosom  wrings, 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings; 

And  O  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things! — 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't! 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!). 

Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case 

(Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't!)  : 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death. 

Swelling  pity  smoored  his  wrath; 

Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith — 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't! 


HIGHLAND  MARY 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie! 


EGBERT   BURNS  313 

There  Summer  first  unfald  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tarry! 
For  there  I  took  the  last  f areweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloomed  the  gay  green  birk. 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As,  underneath  their  fragrant  shade, 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom! 
The  golden  hours,  on  angel  wings. 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  locked  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender; 
And,  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder. 
But  O  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early! 
Now  green's  the  sod  and  cauld's  the  clay 

That  wrai)s  my  Highland  Mary! 

O  pale,  pale  now  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kissed  sae  fondly! 
And  closed  for  ay  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary! 

SCOTS,   WHA   HAE 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victorie! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hour ! 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour! 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 
Chains  and  slaverie! 


314  ENGLISH   POETS 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Ereedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa'. 
Let  him  follow  me! 

By  Oppression's  woes  and  pains! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow! 
Let  us  do  or  die ! 


IS  THERE  FOR  HONEST  POVERTY 

[A  Man's  a  Man  for  A'  That] 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty 

That  hings  his  head,  an'  a'  that? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, — 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  an'  a'  that: 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp; 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 

What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  grey,  an'  a'  that? 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine,- 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that, 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  an'  a'  that: 
The  honest  man,  tho'  e'er  sae  poor, 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 


ROBERT   BURNS  315 

Ye  see  yon  birkie  ca'd  'a  lord/ 

Wha  struts,  an'  stares,  an'  a'  that; 
Tho'  hundreds  worship  at  his  word. 

He's  but  a  cuif  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

His  ribband,  star,  an'  a'  that: 
The  man  o'  independent  mind. 

He  looks  an'  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  an'  a'  that! 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might; 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that! 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

Their  dignities,  an'  a'  that: 
The  pith  o'  sense  an'  pride  o'  worth 

Are  higher  rank  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may 

(As  come  it  will  for  a'  that). 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earth. 

Shall  bear  the  gree,  an'  a'  that: 
For  a'  that,  an'  a'  that. 

It's  comin  yet  for  a'  that. 
That  man  to  man,  the  world  o'er, 

Shall  brithers  be  for  a'  that. 


LAST   MAY  A  BRAW  WOOER 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang  glen. 
And  sair  wi'  his  love  he  did  deave  me : 

I  said  there  was  naething  I  hated  like  men; 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm  to  believe  me,  believe  me. 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm  to  believe  me! 

He  spak  o'  the  darts  in  my  bonie  black  een. 
And  vowed  for  my  love  he  was  dyin : 

I  said  he  might  die  when  he  liket  for  Jean; 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lyin,  for  lyin, 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lyin! 


816  ENGLISH  POETS 

A  weel-stocket  mailen,  himsel  for  the  laird, 
And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffers : 

I  never  loot  on  that  I  kenned  it  or  cared; 

But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers,  waur  offers, 
But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ?  in  a  fortnight  or  less — 
The  Deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her! — 

He  up  the  Gate  Slack  to  my  black  cousin  Bess: 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad,  I  could  bear  her,  could  bear  her! 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad,  I  could  bear  her! 

But  a'  the  niest  week  as  I  petted  wi'  care, 

I  gaed  to  the  tryste  o'  Dalgamock, 
And  wha  but  my  fine  fickle  lover  was  there? 

I  glowered  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock,  a  warlock, 

I  glowered  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock. 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him  a  blink, 

Lest  neebours  might  say  I  was  saucy: 
My  vrooer  he  capered  as  he'd  been  in  drink, 

And  vowed  I  was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie. 

And  vowed  I  was  his  dear  lassie! 

I  spiered  for  my  cousin  fu'  couthy  and  sweet. 

Gin  she  had  recovered  her  hearin. 
And  how  her  new  shoon  fit  her  auld  shachled  feet — 

But,  heavens,  how  he  fell  a  swearin,  a  swearin! 

But,  heavens,  how  he  fell  a  swearin! 

He  begged,  for  Gudesake,  I  wad  be  his  wife. 

Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi'  sorrow; 
So,  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow! 


O,   WEKT    THOU   IN   THE    CAIJLD   BLAST 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast, 

On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea. 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee; 


ERASMUS   DAEWIN"  317 

Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms 
Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw. 

Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom. 
To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare. 
The  desert  were  a  paradise 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there; 
Or  were  I  monarch  of  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 


ERASMUS   DARWIN 

_,,^,   .     From   THE  BOTANIC   GARDEN 
[Procul  Este,  Profani] 

Stay  your  rude  steps!  whose  throbbing  breasts  infold 

The  legion-fiends  of  glory  or  of  gold ! 

Stay!  whose  false  lips  seductive  simpers  part, 

While  cunning  nestles  in  the  harlot-heart! — 

For  you  no  Dryads  dress  the  roseate  bower, 

For  you  no  Nymphs  their  sparkling  vases  pour; 

Unmarked  by  you,  light  Graces  swim  the  green. 

And  hovering  Cupids  aim  their  shafts,  unseen.  i^'- ' 

But  thou!  whose  mind  the  well-attempered  ray 
Of  taste  and  virtue  lights  with  purer  day; 
Whose  finer  sense  each  soft  vibration  owns 
With  sweet  responsive  sympathy  of  tones; 
(So  the  fair  flower  expands  its  lucid  form 
To  meet  the  sun,  and  shuts  it  to  the  storm) ; 
For  thee  my  borders  nurse  the  fragrant  wreath. 
My  fountains  murmur,  and  my  zephyrs  breathe; 


•', 


318  ENGLISH   POETS 

Slow  slides  the  painted  snail,  the  gilded  fly- 
Smooths  his  fine  down,  to  charm  thy  curious  eye; 
On  twinkling  fins  my  pearly  nations  play, 
Or  win  with  sinuous  train  their  trackless  way; 
My  plumy  pairs,  in  gay  embroidery  dressed, 
Form  with  ingenious  bill  the  pensile  nest. 
To  love's  sweet  notes  attune  the  listening  dell, 
And  Echo  sounds  her  soft  symphonious  shell. 

And  if  with  thee  some  hapless  maid  should  stray, 
Disastrous  love  companion  of  her  way. 
Oh,  lead  her  timid  steps  to  yonder  glade. 
Whose  arching  cliffs  depending  alders  shade; 
There,  as  meek  evening  wakes  her  temperate  breeze. 
And  moonbeams  glimmer  through  the  trembling  trees, 
The  rills  that  gurgle  round  shall  soothe  her  ear, 
The  weeping  rocks  shall  number  tear  for  tear; 
There  as  sad  Philomel,  alike  forlorn. 
Sings  to  the  night  from  her  accustomed  thorn; 
While  at  sweet  intervals  each  falling  note 
Sighs  in  the  gale,  and  whispers  round  the  grot; 
The  sister-woe  shall  calm  her  aching  breast, 
And  softer  slumbers  steal  her  cares  to  rest. 

[The  Sensitive  Plant] 

Weak  with  nice  sense,  the  chaste  Mimosa  stands, 
From  each  rude  touch  withdraws  her  timid  hands; 
Oft  as  light  clouds  o'erpass  the  summer-glade. 
Alarmed  she  trembles  at  the  moving  shade; 
And  feels,  alive  through  all  her  tender  form, 
The  whispered  murmurs  of  the  gathering  storm; 
Shuts  her  sweet  eyelids  to  approaching  night, 
And  hails  with  freshened  charms  the  rising  light. 
Veiled,  with  gay  decency  and  modest  pride. 
Slow  to  the  mosque  she  moves,  an  eastern  bride, 
There  her  soft  vows  unceasing  love  record, 
Queen  of  the  bright  seraglio  of  her  lord. 


WILLIAM  "BLAKE  319 

WILLIAM    BLAKE 

TO    WINTER 

'O  Winter !  bar  thine  adamantine  doors : 
The  north  is  thine;  there  hast  thou  built  thy  dark 
Deep-founded  habitation.     Shake  not  thy  roofs, 
Nor  bend  thy  pillars  with  thine  iron  car.' 

He  hears  me  not,  but  o'er  the  yawning  deep  • 
Rides  heavy;  his  storms  are  unchained,  sheathed 
In  ribbed  steel;  I  dare  not  lift  mine  eyes. 
For  he  hath  reared  his  sceptre  o'er  the  world. 

Lo !  now  the  direful  monster,  whose  skin  clings 
To  his  strong  bones,  strides  o'er  the  groaning  rocks: 
He  withers  all  in  silence,  and  in  his  hand 
Unclothes  the  earth,  and  freezes  up  frail  life. 

He  takes  his  seat  upon  the  cliffs, — the  mariner 
Cries  in  vain.     Poor  little  wretch,  that  deal'st 
With  storms! — till  heaven  smiles,  and  the  monster 
Is  driven  yelling  to  his  caves  beneath  Mount  Hecla. 


SONG 

Fresh  from  the  dewy  hill,  the  merry  year 
Smiles  on  my  head  and  mounts  his  flaming  car; 
Round  my  young  brows  the  laurel  wreathes  a  shade, 
And  rising  glories  beam  around  my  head. 

My  feet  are  winged,  while  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 

I  meet  my  maiden  risen  like  the  morn : 

O  bless  those  holy  feet,  like  angels'  feet; 

O  bless  those  limbs,  beaming  with  heavenly  light. 

Like  as  an  angel  glittering  in  the  sky 
In  times  of  innocence  and  holy  joy; 
The  joyful  shepherd  stops  his  grateful  song 
To  hear  the  music  of  an  angel's  tongue. 


320  ENGLISH   POETS 

So  when  she  speaks,  the  voice  of  Heaven  I  hear; 
So  when  we  walk,  nothing  impure  comes  near; 
Each  field  seems  Eden,  and  each  calm  retreat; 
Each  village  seems  the  haunt  of  holy  feet. 

But  that  sweet  village  where  my  black-eyed  maid 
Closes  her  eyes  in  sleep  beneath  night's  shade. 
Whene'er  I  enter,  more  than  mortal  fire 
Bums  in  my  soul,  and  does  my  song  inspire. 


TO    THE    MUSES 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow. 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 

The  chambers  of  the  sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased; 

Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair. 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth. 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air. 

Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth; 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove. 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry! 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoyed  in  you ! 

The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move ! 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few! 


INTEODUCTION  TO  SONGS  OF  INNOCENCE 

Piping  down  the  valleys  wild. 
Piping  songs  of  pleasant  glee. 
On  a  cloud  I  saw  a  child. 
And  he  laughing  said  to  me: 


WILLIAM  BLAKE  321 

*Pipe  a  song  about  a  Lamb!' 
So  I  piped  with  merry  cheer. 
'Piper,  pipe  that  song  again;' 
So  I  piped:  he  wept  to  hear. 

'Drop  thy  pipe,  thy  happy  pipe; 
Sing  thy  songs  of  happy  cheer:' 
So  I  sang  the  same  again. 
While  he  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

Tiper,  sit  thee  down  and  write 
In  a  book,  that  all  may  read.' 
So  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 
And  I  plucked  a  hollow  reed. 

And  I  made  a  rural  pen, 
And  I  stained  the  water  clear, 
And  I  wrote  my  happy  songs 
Every  child  may  joy  to  hear. 

THE  LAMB 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 
Gave  thee  life  and  bid  thee  feed 
By  the  stream  and  o'er  the  mead; 
Gave  thee  clothing  of  delight, 
Softest  clothing,  woolly,  bright; 
Gave  thee  such  a  tender  voice, 
Making  all  the  vales  rejoice? 

Little  Lamb,  who  made  thee? 

Dost  thou  know  who  made  thee? 

Little  Lamb,  I'll  tell  thee; 

Little  Lamb.  I'll  tell  thee: 
He  is  called  by  thy  name. 
For  He  calls  himself  a  Lamb. 
He  is  meek,  and  He  is  mild; 
He  became  a  little  child. 
I  a  child,  and  thou  a  lamb, 
We  are  called  by  His  name. 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  theel 

Little  Lamb,  God  bless  thee! 


322  ENGLISH   POETS 


THE    LITTLE    BLACK    BOY 

My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild, 
And  I  am  black,  but  O!  my  soul  is  white; 
White  as  an  angel  is  the  English  child, 
But  I  am  black,  as  if  bereaved  of  light. 

My  mother  taught  me  underneath  a  tree, 
And,  sitting  down  before  the  heat  of  day, 
She  took  me  on  her  lap  and  kissed  me, 
And,  pointing  to  the  east,  began  to  say: 

Tiook  on  the  rising  sun, — there  God  does  live, 
And  gives  His  light,  and  gives  His  heat  away; 
And  flowers  and  trees  and  beasts  and  men  receive 
Comfort  in  morning,  joy  in  the  noonday. 

'And  we  are  put  on  earth  a  little  space. 
That  we  may  learn  to  bear  the  beams  of  love; 
And  these  black  bodies  and  this  sunburnt  face 
Is  but  a  cloud,  and  like  a  shady  grove. 

'For  when  our  souls  have  learned  the  heat  to  bear. 
The  cloud  will  vanish;  we  shall  hear  His  voice. 
Saying:  "Come  out  from  the  grove,  my  love  and  care. 
And  round  my  golden  tent  like  lambs  rejoice." ' 

Thus  did  my  mother  say,  and  kissed  me; 

And  thus  I  say  to  little  English  boy._ 

When  I  from  black  and  he  from  white  cloud  free, 

And  round  the  tent  of  God  like  lambs  we  joy, 

I'll  shade  him  from  the  heat,  till  he  can  bear 
To  lean  in  joy  upon  our  Father's  knee; 
And  then  I'll  stand  and  stroke  his  silver  hair, 
And  be  like  him,  and  he  will  then  love  me. 


A  CEADLE   SONG 

Sweet  dreams,  form  a  shade 
O'er  my  lovely  infant's  head ; 
Sweet  dreams  of  pleasant  streams 
By  happy,  silent,  moony  beams. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  323 

Sweet  sleep,  with  soft  down 
Weave  thy  brows  an  infant  crown. 
Sweet  sleep,  Angel  mild. 
Hover  o'er  my  happy  child. 

Sweet  smiles,  in  the  night 
Hover  over  my  delight; 
Sweet  smiles,  mother's  smiles. 
All  the  livelong  night  beguiles. 

Sweet  moans,  dovelike  sighs, 
Chase  not  slumber  from  thy  eyes. 
Sweet  moans,  sweeter  smiles, 
All  the  dovelike  moans  beguiles. 

Sleep,  sleep,  happy  child, 

All  creation  slept  and  smiled; 

Sleep,  sleep,  happy  sleep. 

While  o'er  thee  thy  mother  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Holy  image  I  can  trace. 
Sweet  babe,  once  like  thee. 
Thy  Maker  lay  and  wept  for  me, 

Wept  for  me,  for  thee,  for  all. 
When  He  was  an  infant  small. 
Thou  His  image  ever  see. 
Heavenly  face  that  smiles  on  thee. 

Smiles  on  thee,  on  me,  on  all; 
Who  became  an  infant  small. 
Infant  smiles  are  His  own  smiles; 
Heaven  and  earth  to  peace  beguiles. 

HOLY  THUESDAY 

'Twas  on  a  Holy  Thursday,  their  innocent  faces  clean. 
The  children  walking  two  and  two,  in  red  and  blue  and 

green. 
Grey-headed  beadles  walked  before,  with  wands  as  white 

as  snow. 
Till  into  the  high  dome  of  Paul's  they  like  Thames'  waters 

flow. 


324  ENGLISH  POETS 

O  what  a  multitude  they  seemed,  these  flowers  of  London 

town ! 
Seated  in  companies  they  sit  with  radiance  all  their  own. 
The  hum  of  multitudes  was  there,  but  multitudes  of  lambs, 
Thousands  of  little  boys  and  girls  raising  their  innocent 

hands. 

Now  like  a  mighty  wind  they  raise  to  Heaven  the  voice 

of  song, 
Or  like  harmonious   thunderings  the   seats    of   Heaven 

among. 
Beneath  them  sit  the  aged  men,  wise  guardians  of  the 

poor; 
Then  cherish  pity,  lest  you  drive  an  angel  from  your  door. 


THE  DIVINE  IMAGE 

To  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 
All  pray  in  their  distress; 
And  to  these  virtues  of  delight 
Keturn  their  thankfulness. 

For  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 
Is  God,  our  Father  dear. 
And  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love 
Is  man.  His  child  and  care. 

Eor  Mercy  has  a  human  heart, 
Pity  a  human  face, 
And  Love,  the  human  form  divine. 
And  Peace,  the  human  dress. 

Then  every  man,  of  every  clime, 
That  prays  in  his  distress. 
Prays  to  the  human  form  divine, 
Love,  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace. 

And  all  must  love  the  human  form, 
In  heathen,  Turk,  or  Jew; 
Where  Mercy,  Love,  and  Pity  dwell 
There  God  is  dwelling  too. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  325 


ON   ANOTHER'S    SORROW 

Can  I  see  another's  woe, 
And  not  be  in  sorrow  too? 
Can  1  see  another's  grief, 
And  not  seek  for  kind  relief? 

Can  I  see  a  falling  tear, 
And  not  feel  my  sorrow's  share? 
Can  a  father  see  his  child 
Weep,  nor  be  with  sorrow  filled? 

Can  a  mother  sit  and  hear 
An  infant  groan,  an  infant  fear? 
No,  no!  never  can  it  be! 
Never,  never  can  it  be! 

And  can  He  who  smiles  on  all 
Hear  the  wren  with  sorrows  small, 
Hear  the  small  bird's  grief  and  care, 
Hear  the  woes  that  infants  bear, 

And  not  sit  beside  the  nest. 
Pouring  pity  in  their  breast; 
And  not  sit  the  cradle  near. 
Weeping  tear  on  infant's  tear; 

And  not  sit  both  night  and  day, 
Wiping  all  our  tears  away? 
O,  no!  never  can  it  be! 
Never,  never  can  it  be! 

He  doth  give  His  joy  to  all; 
He  becomes  an  infant  small; 
He  becomes  a  man  of  woe; 
He  doth  feel  the  sorrow  too. 

Think  not  thou  canst  sigh  a  sigh, 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  by; 
Think  not  thou  canst  weep  a  tear. 
And  thy  Maker  is  not  near. 


326  ENGLISH   POETS 

O!  He  gives  to  us  His  joy- 
That  our  grief  He  may  destroy; 
Till  our  grief  is  fled  and  gone 
He  doth  sit  by  us  and  moan. 


THE   BOOK   OF   THEL 

Thel's  Motto 

Does  the  Eagle  Jcnow  what  is  in  the  pit: 
Or  wilt  thou  go  ash  the  Mole? 
Can  Wisdom  he  put  in  a  silver  rod. 
Or  Love  in  a  golden  howl? 


The  daughters  of  [the]  Seraphim  led  round  their  sunny 

flocks — 
All  but  the  youngest :  she  in  paleness  sought  the  secret  air, 
To  fade  away  like  morning  beauty  from  her  mortal  day : 
Down  by  the  river  of  Adona  her  soft  voice  is  heard, 
And  thus  her  gentle  lamentation  falls  like  morning  dew : — 

'O  life  of  this  our  spring !  why  fades  the  lotus  of  the  water? 
Why  fade  these  children  of  the  spring,  born  but  to  smile 

and  fall? 
Ah!  Thel  is  like  a  watery  bow,  and  like  a  parting  cloud; 
Like  a  reflection  in  a  glass;  like  shadows  in  the  water; 
Like  dreams  of  infants,  like  a  smile  upon  an  infant's  face ; 
Like  the  dove's  voice;  like  transient  day;  like  music  in 

the  air. 
Ah !  gentle  may  I  lay  me  down,  and  gentle  rest  my  head, 
And  gentle  sleep  the  sleep  of  death,  and  gentle  hear  the 

voice 
Of  Him  that  walketh  in  the  garden  in  the  evening  time.' 

The  Lily  of  the  Valley,  breathing  in  the  humble  grass, 
Answered  the  lovely  maid  and  said :    'I  am  a  wat'ry  weed, 
And  I  am  very  small,  and  love  to  dwell  in  lowly  vales; 
So  weak,  the  gilded  butterfly  scarce  perches  on  my  head. 
Yet  I  am  visited  from  heaven,  and  He  that  smiles  on  all 
Walks  in  the  valley,  and  each  morn  over  me  spreads  His 
hand. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  327 

Saying,  "Kejoice,  thou  humble  grass,  thou  new-born  lily- 
flower, 

Thou  gentle  maid  of  silent  valleys  and  of  modest  brooks; 

For  thou  shalt  be  clothed  in  light,  and  fed  with  morning 
manna, 

Till  summer's  heat  melts  thee  beside  the  fountains  and  the 
springs. 

To  flourish  in  eternal  vales."  Then  why  should  Thel  com- 
plain ? 

Why  should  the  mistress  of  the  vales  of  Har  utter  a  sigh  ? 

She  ceased,  and  smiled  in  tears,  then  sat  down  in  her 
silver  shrine. 

Thel  answered :  'O  thou  little  Virgin  of  the  peaceful  valley. 
Giving  to  those  that  cannot  crave,  the  voiceless,  the  o'er- 

tired ; 
Thy  breath  doth  nourish  the  innocent  lamb,  he  smells  thy 

milky  garments. 
He  crops  thy  flowers  while  thou  sittest  smiling  in  his  face, 
Wiping  his  mild  and  meekin  mouth  from  all  contagious 

taints. 
Thy  wine  doth  purify  the  golden  honey;  thy  perfume, 
Which  thou  dost  scatter  on  every  little  blade  of  grass  that 

springs. 
Revives  the  milked  cow,  and  tames  the  fire-breathing  steed. 
But  Thel  is  like  a  faint  cloud  kindled  at  the  rising  sun : 
I  vanish  from  my  pearly  throne,  and  who  shall  fimd  my 

place  V 

'Queen  of  the  vales,'  the  Lily  answered,  'ask  the  tender 

Cloud, 
And  it  shall  tell  thee  why  it  glitters  in  the  morning  sky. 
And  why  it  scatters  its  bright  beauty  through  the  humid 

air. 
Descend,   O   little   Cloud,   and   hover   before   the  eyes   of 

Thel.' 

The  Cloud  descended,  and  the  Lily  bowed  her  modest  head, 
And  went  to  mind  her  numerous  charge  among  the  verdant 
grass. 


328  ENGLISH   POETS 


'O  little  Cloud,'  the  Virgin  said,  'I  charge  thee  tell  to  me 
Why  thou  complainest  not,  when  in  one  hour  thou  fade 

away; 
Then  we  shall  seek  thee,  but  not  find.     Ah!  Thel  is  like 

to  thee: 
I  pass  away;  yet  I  complain,  and  no  one  hears  my  voice.' 

The  Cloud  then  showed  his  golden  head,  and  his  bright 

form  emerged, 
Hovering  and  glittering  on  the  air  before   the  face  of 

Thel. 
'O  Virgin,  know'st  thou  not  our  steeds  drink  of  the  golden 

springs 
Where  Luvah   doth  renew  his  horses?     Look'st  thou  on 

my  youth, 
And  fearest  thou,  because  I  vanish  and  am  seen  no  more. 
Nothing  remains?    O  maid,  I  tell  thee,  when  I  pass  away, 
It  is  to  tenfold  life,  to  love,  to  peace,  and  raptures  holy : 
Unseen   descending,   weigh   my  light   wings   upon   balmy 

flowers. 
And  court  the  fair-eyed  dew,  to  take  me  to  her  shining 

tent: 
The   weeping  virgin,   trembling,   kneels   before  the  risen 

sun. 
Till  we  arise,  linked  in  a  golden  band  and  never  part. 
But  walk  united,  bearing  food  to  all  our  tender  flowers.' 

'Dost  thou,  O  little  Cloud  ?    I  fear  that  I  am  not  like  thee, 
For  I  walk  through  the  vales  of  Har,  and  smell  the  sweetest 

flowers. 
But  I  feed  not  the  little  flowers ;  I  hear  the  warbling  birds, 
But  I  feed  not  the  warbling  birds;  they  fly  and  seek  their 

food: 
But  Thel  delights  in  these  no  more,  because  I  fade  away; 
And  all  shall  say,   "Without   a  use  this  shining  woman 

lived, 
Or  did  she  only  live  to  be  at  death  the  food  of  worms  ?" ' 

The  Cloud  reclined  upon  his  airy  throne,  and  answered 
thus : — 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  329 

'Then  if  thou  art  the  food  of  worms,  O  Virgin  of  the  skies, 
How  great  thy  use,  how  great  thy  blessing!     Everything 

that  lives 
Lives  not  alone  nor  for  itself.     Fear  not,  and  I  will  call 
The  weak  Worm  from  its  lowly  bed,  and  thou  shalt  hear 

its  voice. 
Cqpie  forth.  Worm  of  the  silent  valley,   to   thy  pensive 

Queen.' 

The  helpless  Worm  arose,  and  sat  upon  the  Lily's  leaf. 
And  the  bright  Cloud  sailed  on,  to  find  his  partner  in  the 
vale. 

m 

Then  Thel  astonished  viewed  the  Worm  upon  its  dewy  bed. 

'Art  thou  a  Worm?  Image  of  weakness,  art  thou  but  a 
Worm  ? 

I  see  thee  like  an  infant  wrapped  in  the  Lily's  leaf. 

Ah!  weep  not,  little  voice,  thou  canst  not  speak,  but  thou 
canst  weep. 

Is  this  a  Worm?  I  see  thee  lay  helpless  and  naked,  weep- 
ing. 

And  none  to  answer,  none  to  cherish  thee  with  mother's 
smiles.' 

The  Clod  of  Clay  heard  the  Worm's  voice,  and  raised  her 
pitying  head; 

She  bowed  over  the  weeping  infant,  and  her  life  exhaled 

In  milky  fondness:  then  on  Thel  she  fixed  her  humble 
eyes. 

'O  Beauty  of  the  vales  of  Har  I  we  live  not  for  ourselves. 
Thou  seest  me,  the  meanest  thing,  and  so  I  am  indeed. 
My  bosom  of  itself  is  cold,  and  of  itself  is  dark; 
But  He  that  loves  the  lowly  pours  His  oil  upon  my  head. 
And  kisses  me,  and  binds  His  nuptial  bands  around  my 

breast. 
And  says :  "Thou  mother  of  my  children,  I  have  loved  thee, 
And  I  have  given  thee  a  crown  that  none  can  take  away." 
But  how  this  is,  sweet  maid,  I  know  not,  and  I  cannot 

know; 
I  ponder,  and  I  cannot  ponder;  yet  I  live  and  love.' 


330  ENGLISH   POETS 

The  daughter  of  beauty  wiped  her  pitying  tears  with  her 
white  veil, 

And  said :  'Alas !  I  knew  not  this,  and  therefore  did  I  weep. 

That  God  would  love  a  worm  I  knew,  and  punish  the  evil 
foot 

That  wilful  bruised  its  helpless  form;  but  that  He  cher- 
ished it 

With  milk  and  oil,  I  never  knew,  and  therefore  did  I  weep ; 

And  I  complained  in  the  mild  air,  because  I  fade  away, 

And  lay  me  down  in  thy  cold  bed,  and  leave  my  shining  lot.' 

'Queen  of  the  vales,'  the  matron  Clay  answered,  'I  heard 

thy  sighs, 
And  all  thy  moans  flew  o'er  my  roof,  but  I  have  called 

them  down. 
Wilt  thou,  O  queen,  enter  my  house?    'Tis  given  thee  to 

enter, 
And  to  return:  fear  nothing;  enter  with  thy  virgin  feet.' 

IV 

The  eternal  gates'  terrific  porter  lifted  the  northern  bar; 
Thel  entered  in,  and  saw  the  secrets  of  the  land  unknown. 
She  saw  the  couches  of  the  dead,  and  where  the  fibrous  root 
Of  every  heart  on  earth  infixes  deep  its  restless  twists: 
A  land  of  sorrows  and  of  tears  where  never  smile  was  seen. 

She  wandered  in  the  land  of  clouds  through  valleys  dark, 

listening 
Dolours  and  lamentations ;  waiting  oft  beside  a  dewy  grave 
She  stood  in  silence,  listening  to  the  voices  of  the  ground, 
Till  to  her  own  grave-plot  she  came,  and  there  she  sat 

down. 
And  heard  this  voice  of  sorrow  breathed  from  the  hollow 

pit. 

'Why  cannot  the  ear  be  closed  to  its  own  destruction? 
Or  the  glistening  eye  to  the  poison  of  a  smile? 
Why  are  eyelids  stored  with  arrows  ready  drawn, 
Where  a  thousand  fighting  men  in  ambush  lie. 
Or  an  eye  of  gifts  and  graces  showering  fruits  and  coined 
gold? 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  331 

Why  a  tongue  impressed  with  honey  from  every  wind? 
Why  an  ear,  a  whirlpool  fierce  to  draw  creations  in  ? 
Why  a  nostril  wide  inhaling  terror,  trembling,   and  af- 
fright ? 
Why  a  tender  curb  upon  the  youthful,  burning  boy? 
Why  a  little  curtain  of  flesh  on  the  bed  of  our  desire?' 

The  Virgin  started  from  her  seat,  and  with  a  shriek 
Fled  back  unhindered  till  she  came  into  the  vales  of  Har. 


From    THE    FRENCH   EEVOLUTION 
[Democracy  and  Peace] 

Aumont  went  out  and  stood  in  the  hollow  porch,  his  ivory 

wand  in  his  hand; 
A  cold  orb  of  disdain  revolved  round  him,  and  covered  his 

soul  with  snows  eternal. 
Great  Henry's  soul  shuddered,  a  whirlwind  and  fire  tore 

furious  from  his  angry  bosom; 
He^  indignant  departed  on  horses  of  Heaven.     Then  the 

Abbe  de  Sieyes  raised  his  feet 
On  the  steps  of  the  Louvre;  like  a  voice  of  God  following 

a  storm,  the  Abbe  followed 
The  pale  fires  of  Aumont  into  the  chamber;  as  a  father 

that  bows  to  his  son, 
Whose  rich  fields  inheriting  spread  their  old  glory,  so  the 

voice  of  the  people  bowed 
Before  the  ancient  seat  of  the  kingdom  and  mountains 

to  be  renewed. 

'Hear,  O  heavens  of  France !  the  voice  of  the  people,  aris- 
ing from  valley  and  hill, 

O'erclouded  with  power.  Hear  the  voice  of  valleys,  the 
voice  of  meek  cities, 

Mourning  oppressed  on  village  and  field,  till  the  village 
and  field  is  a  waste. 

For  the  husbandman  weeps  at  blights  of  the  fife,  and  blast- 
ing of  trumpets  consume 

The  souls  of  mild  France;  the  pale  mother  nourishes  her 
child  to  the  deadly  slaughter. 


332  ENGLISH   POETS 

When  the  heavens  were  sealed  with  a  stone,  and  the  ter- 
rible sun  closed  in  an  orb,  and  the  moon 
Rent  from  the  nations,  and  each  star  appointed  for  watch- 
ers of  night, 
The  millions  of  spirits  immortal  were  bound  in  the  ruins 

of  sulphur  heaven 
To  wander  enslaved;  black,  depressed  in  dark  ignorance, 

kept  in  awe  with  the  whip 
To  worship  terrors,  bred  from  the  blood  of  revenge  and 

breath  of  desire 
In  bestial  forms,  or  more  terrible  men ;  till  the  dawn  of  our 

peaceful  morning. 
Till  dawn,  till  morning,  till  the  breaking  of  clouds,  and 

swelling  of  winds,  and  the  universal  voice; 
Till  man  raise  his  darkened  limbs  out  of  the  caves  of  night. 

His  eyes  and  his  heart 
Expand — Where  is  Space?  where,  O  sun,  is  thy  dwelling? 

where  thy  tent,  O  faint  slumbrous  Moon? 
Then  the  valleys  of  France  shall  cry  to  the  soldier :  "Throw 

down  thy  sword  and  musket, 
And  run   and   embrace  the  meek  peasant."     Her  nobles 

shall  hear  and  shall  weep,  and  put  off 
The  red  robe  of  terror,  the  crown  of  oppression,  the  shoes 

of  contempt,  and  unbuckle 
The  girdle  of  war   from  the  desolate   earth.     Then   the 

Priest  in  his  thunderous  cloud 
Shall  weep,  bending  to  earth,  embracing  the  valleys,  and 

putting  his  hand  to  the  plough. 
Shall  say,   "No  more  I  curse  thee;  but  now  I  will  bless 

thee:  no  more  in  deadly  black 
Devour  thy  labour;  nor  lift  up  a  cloud  in  thy  heavens, 

O  laborious  plough; 
That  the  wild  raging  millions,  that  wander  in  forests,  and 

howl  in  law-blasted  wastes. 
Strength  maddened  with  slavery,  honesty  bound  in  the 

dens  of  superstition. 
May  sing  in  the  village,  and  shout  in  the  harvest,  and 

woo  in  pleasant  gardens 
Their  once  savage  loves,  now  beaming  with  knowledge, 

with  gentle   awe  adorned; 
And  the  saw,  and  the  hammer,  the  chisel,  the  pencil,  the 

pen,  and  the  instruments 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  333 

Of  heavenly  song  sound  in  the  wilds  once  forbidden,  to 
teach  the  laborious  ploughman 

And  shepherd,  delivered  from  clouds  of  war,  from  pesti- 
lence, from  night-fear,  from  murder, 

From  falling,  from  stifling,  from  hunger,  from  cold,  from 
slander,  discontent,  and  sloth, 

That  walk  in  beasts  and  birds  of  night,  driven  back  by 
the  sandy  desert. 

Like  pestilent  fogs  round  cities  of  men;  and  the  happy 
earth  sing  in  its  course, 

The  mild  peaceable  nations  be  opened  to  heaven,  and  men 
walk  with  their  fathers  in  bliss." 

Then  hear  the  first  voice  of  the  morning:  "Depart,  O 
clouds  of  night,  and  no  more 

Return;  be  withdrawn  cloudy  war,  troops  of  warriors  de- 
part, nor  around  our  peaceable  city 

Breathe  fires;  but  ten  miles  from  Paris  let  all  be  peace, 
nor  a  soldier  be  seen !" ' 


From  A   SONG  OF  LIBERTY 

The  Eternal  Female  groaned!  It  was  heard  over  all 
the  earth. 

Albion's  coast  is  sick,  silent.  The  American  meadows 
faint ! 

Shadows  of  Prophecy  shiver  along  by  the  lakes  and  the 
rivers,  and  mutter  across  the  ocean.  France,  rend  down 
thy  dungeon! 

Look  up!  look  up!  O  citizen  of  London,  enlarge  fhy 
countenance!  O  Jew,  leave  counting  gold!  return  to  thy 
oil  and  wine.  O  African!  black  African!  Go,  winged 
thought,  widen  his  forehead! 

With  thunder  and  fire,  leading  his  starry  hosts  through 
the  waste  wilderness,  he  promulgates  his  ten  commands, 
glancing  his  beamy  eyelids  over  the  deep  in  dark  dismay. 


334  ENGLISH   POETS 

Where  the  son  of  fire  in  his  eastern  cloud,  while  the 
morning  plumes  her  golden  breast, 

Spurning  the  clouds  written  with  curses,  stamps  the 
stony  law  to  dust,  loosing  the  eternal  horses  from  the  dens 
of  night,  crying:  Empire  is  no  more!  and  now  the  lion 
and  wolf  shall  cease. 

Chorus 

Let  the  Priests  of  the  Eaven  of  dawn  no  longer,  in 
deadly  black,  with  hoarse  note  curse  the  sons  of  joy!  Nor 
his  accepted  brethren — whom,  tyrant,  he  calls  free — lay 
the  bound  or  build  the  roof!  Nor  pale  Keligion's  lechery 
call  that  virginity  that  wishes  but  acts  not! 

For  everything  that  lives  is  holy ! 

THE    FLY 

Little  Fly, 
Thy  summer's  play 
My  thoughtless  hand 
Has  brushed  away. 

Am  not  I 
A  fly  like  thee? 
Or  art  not  thou 
A  man  like  me  ? 

For  I  dance. 
And  drink,  and  sing, 
Till  some  blind  hand 
Shall  brush  my  wing. 

If  thought  is  life 

And  strength  and  breath, 

And  the  want 

Of  thought  is  death; 

Then  am  I 
A  happy  fly, 
If  I  live 
Or  if  I  die. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  335 


THE   TIGER 

Tiger!  Tiger!  burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night, 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye 
Could  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 

In  what  distant  deeps  or  skies 
Burnt  the  fire  of  thine  eyes? 
On  what  wings  dare  he  aspire? 
What  the  hand  dare  seize  the  fire? 

And  what  shoulder,  and  what  art, 
Covild  twist  the  sinews  of  thy  heart  ? 
And  when  thy  heart  began  to  beat. 
What  dread  hand?  and  what  dread  feet? 

What  the  hammer?  what  the  chain? 
In  what  furnace  was  thy  brain? 
What  the  anvil?  what  dread  grasp 
Dare  its  deadly  terrors  clasp? 

When  the  stars  threw  down  their  spears, 
And  watered  heaven  with  their  tears. 
Did  he  smile  his  work  to  see? 
Did  he  who  made  the  Lamb  make  thee? 

Tiger!    Tiger!    burning  bright 
In  the  forests  of  the  night. 
What  immortal  hand  or  eye, 
Dare  frame  thy  fearful  symmetry? 


HOLY    THURSDAY 

Is  this  a  holy  thing  to  see 

In  a  rich  and  fruitful  land. 

Babes  reduced  to  misery. 

Fed  with  cold  and  usurous  hand? 

Is  that  trembling  cry  a  song? 
Can  it  be  a  song  of  joy? 
And  so  many  children  poor? 
It  is  a  land  of  poverty! 


336  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  their  sun  does  never  shine, 
And  their  fields  are  bleak  and  bare, 
And  their  ways  are  filled  with  thorns: 
It  is  eternal  winter  there. 

For  where'er  the  sun  does  shine, 
And  where'er  the  rain  does  fall, 
Babe  can  never  hunger  there. 
Nor  poverty  the  mind  appal. 


THE    GAEDEN   OF   LOVE 

I  went  to  the  Garden  of  Love, 
And  saw  what  I  never  had  seen: 
A  chapel  was  built  in  the  midst, 
Where  I  used  to  play  on  the  green. 

And  the  gates  of  this  chapel  were  shut, 
And  'Thou  shalt  not'  writ  over  the  door; 
So  I  turned  to  the  Garden  of  Lc^e, 
That  so  many  sweet  flowers  bore; 

And  I  saw  it  was  filled  with  graves, 
And  tombstones  where  flowers  should  be; 
And  priests  in  black  gowns  were  walking  their 

rounds. 
And  binding  with  briars  my  joys  and  desires. 


A   LITTLE    BOY   LOST 

'Nought  loves  another  as  itself. 
Nor  venerates  another  so, 
Nor  is  it  possible  to  Thought 
A  greater  than  itself  to  know: 

'And,  Father,  how  can  I  love  you 

Or  any  of  my  brothers  more? 

I  love  you  like  the  little  bird 

That  picks  up  crumbs  around  the  door.' 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  337 

The  Priest  sat  by  and  heard  the  child, 
In  trembling  zeal  he  seized  his  hair: 
He  led  him  by  his  little  coat. 
And  all  admired  the  priestly  care. 

And  standing  on  the  altar  high, 
*Lo!  what  a  fiend  is  here!'  said  he, 
'One  who  sets  reason  up  for  judge 
Of  our  most  holy  Mystery.' 

The  weeping  child  could  not  be  heard. 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain; 
They  stripped  him  to  his  little  shirt, 
And  bound  him  in  an  iron  chain; 

And  burned  him  in  a  holy  place. 
Where  many  had  been  burned  before : 
The  weeping  parents  wept  in  vain. 
Are  such  things  done  on  Albion's  shore? 


THE    SCHOOLBOY 

I  love  to  rise  in  a  summer  morn 
When  the  birds  sing  on  every  tree; 
The  distant  huntsman  winds  his  horn. 
And  the  skylark  sings  with  me. 
O !  what  sweet  company. 

But  to  go  to  school  in  a  summer  morn, 
O!  it  drives  all  joy  away; 
Under  a  cruel  eye  outworn. 
The  little  ones  spend  the  day 
In  sighing  and  dismay. 

Ah!  then  at  times  I  drooping  sit. 
And  spend  many  an  anxious  hour. 
Nor  in  my  book  can  I  take  delight. 
Nor  sit  in  learning's  bower. 
Worn  through  with  the  dreary  shower. 


338  ENGLISH   POETS 

How  can  the  bird  that  is  born  for  joy- 
Sit  in  a  cage  and  sing? 
How  can  a  child,  when  fears  annoy, 
But  droop  his  tender  wing, 
And  forget  his  youthful  spring? 

O !  father  and  mother,  if  buds  are  nipped 
And  blossoms  blown  away, 
And  if  the  tender  plants  are  stripped 
Of  their  joy  in  the  springing  day, 
By  sorrow  and  care's  dismay. 

How  shall  the  summer  arise  in  joy, 

Or  the  summer  fruits  appear? 

Or  how  shall  we  gather  what  griefs  destroy. 

Or  bless  the  mellowing  year. 

When  the  blasts  of  winter  appear? 


LONDON 

I  wander  through  each  chartered  street. 
Near  where  the  chartered  Thames  does  flow. 
And  mark  in  every  face  I  meet 
Marks  of  weakness,  marks  of  woe. 

In  every  cry  of  every  man. 
In  every  infant's  cry  of  fear. 
In  every  voice,  in  every  ban, 
The  mind-forged  manacles  I  hear. 

How  the  chimney-sweeper's  cry 
Every  blackening  church  appals; 
And  the  hapless  soldier's  sigh 
Runs  in  blood  down  palace  walls 

But  most  through  midnight  streets  I  hear 

How  the  youthful  harlot's  curse 

Blasts  the  new-born  infant's  tear, 

And  blights  with  plagues  the  marriage  hearse. 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  339 


From  AUGUEIES  OF  INNOCEITCE 

To  see  a  ^Yorld  in  a  grain  of  sand, 
And  a  Heaven  in  a  wild  flower. 
Hold  Infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand. 
And  Eternity  in  an  hour. 

A  robin  redbreast  in  a  cage 

Puts  all  Heaven  in  a  rage. 

A  dove-house  filled  with  doves  and  pigeons 

Shudders  hell  through  all  its  regions. 

A  dog  starved  at  his  master's  gate 

Predicts  the  ruin  of  the  state. 

A  horse  misused  upon  the  road 

Calls  to  Heaven  for  human  blood. 

Each  outcry  of  the  hunted  hare 

A  fibre  from  the  brain  does  tear. 

A  skylark  wounded  in  the  wing, 

A  chej'ubim  does  cease  to  sing. 

The  game-cock  clipped  and  armed  for  fight 

Does  the  rising  sun  affright. 

Every  wolf's  and  lion's  howl 

Raises  from  hell  a  human   soul. 

The  wild  deer,  wandering  here  and  there. 

Keeps  the  human  soul  from  care. 

The  lamb  misused  breeds  public  strife, 

And  yet  forgives  the  butcher's  knife. 

The  bat  that  flits  at  close  of  eve 

Has  left  the  brain  that  won't  believe. 

The  owl  that  calls  upon  the  night 

Speaks  the  unbeliever's  fright. 

He  who  shall  hurt  the  little  wren 

Shall  never  be  beloved  by  men. 

He  who  the  ox  to  wrath  has  moved 

Shall  never  be  by  woman  loved. 

The  wanton  boy  that  kills  the  fly 

Shall  feel  the  spider's  enmity. 

He  who  torments  the  chafer's  sprite 

Weaves  a  bower  in  endless  night. 

The  caterpillar  on  the  leaf 

Repeats  to  thee  thy  mother's  grief. 


340  ENGLISH   POETS 

Kill  not  the  moth  nor  butterfly, 
For  the  Last  Judgment  draweth  nigh. 
He  who  shall  train  the  horse  to  war 
Shall  never  pass  the  polar  bar. 
The  beggar's  dog  and  widow's  cat, 
Feed  them,  and  thou  wilt  grow  fat. 

The  babe  that  weeps  the  rod  beneath 

Writes  revenge  in  realms  of  death. 

The  beggar's  rags  fluttering  in  air, 

Does  to  rags  the  heavens  tear. 

The  soldier,  armed  with  sword  and  gun, 

Palsied  strikes  the  summer's  sun. 

The  poor  man's  farthing  is  worth  more 

Than  all  the  gold  on  Afric's  shore. 

One  mite  wrung  from  the  labourer's  hands 

Shall  buy  and  sell  the  miser's  lands; 

Or,  if  protected  from  on  high, 

Does  that  whole  nation  sell  and  buy. 

He  who  mocks  the  infant's  faith 

Shall  be  mocked  in  age  and  death. 

He  who  shall  teach  the  child  to  doubt 

The  rotting  grave  shall  ne'er  get  out. 

He  who  respects  the  infant's  faith 

Triumphs  over  hell  and  death. 


From   MILTON 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time 

Walk  upon  England's  mountains  green? 

And  was  the  holy  Lamb  of  God 

On  England's  pleasant  pastures  seen? 

And  did  the  countenance  divine 

Shine  forth  upon  our  clouded  hills? 

And  was  Jerusalem  builded  here 
Among  these  dark   Satanic  mills? 

Bring  me  my  bow  of  burning  gold ! 

Bring  me  my  arrows  of  desire ! 
Bring  me  my  spear!     O  clouds,  unfold  I 

Bring  me  my  chariot  of  fire! 


WILLIAM   BLAKE  341 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 
Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand, 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem 
In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 

[Reason  and  Imagination] 

The   negation    is    the    Spectre,    the    reasoning   power    in 

man: 
This  is  a  false  body,  an  incrustation  over  my  immortal 
Spirit,  a  selfhood  which  must  be  put  off  and  annihilated 

alway. 
To  cleanse  the  face  of  my  spirit  by  self-examination. 
To  bathe  in  the  waters  of  life,  to  wash  off  the  not  human, 
I  come  in  self-annihilation  and  the  grandeur  of  inspira- 
tion ; 
To  cast  off  rational  demonstration  by  faith  in  the  Saviour, 
To  cast  off  the  rotten  rags  of  memory  by  inspiration, 
To  cast  off  Bacon,  Locke,  and  Newton  from  Albion's  cov- 

To  take  off  his  filthy  garments  and  clothe  him  with  imag- 
ination ; 
To  cast  aside  from  poetry  all  that  is  not  inspiration. 
That  it  no  longer  shall  dare  to  mock  with  the  aspersion 

of  madness 
Cast  on  the  inspired  by  the  tame  high  finisher  of  paltry 

blots 
Indefinite  or  paltry  rhymes,  or  paltry  harmonies, 
Who   creeps   into   state  government  like  a   caterpillar  to 

destroy ; 
To  cast  off  the  idiot  questioner,  who  is  always  questioning. 
But  never  capable  of  answering;  who  sits  with  a  sly  grin 
Silent  plotting  when  to  question,  like  a  thief  in  a  cave; 
Who  publishes  doubt  and  calls  it  knowledge;  whose  sci- 
ence is  despair. 
Whose  pretence  to  knowledge  is  envy,  whose  whole  sci- 
ence is 
To  destroy  the  wisdom  of  ages,  to  gratify  ravenous  envy 
That  rages  round  him  like  a  wolf,  day  and  night,  without 

rest. 
He  smiles  with  condescension ;  he  talks  of  benevolence  and 
virtue. 


342  ENGLISH   POETS 

And  those  who  act  with  benevolence  and  virtue  they  mur- 
der time  on  time. 
These  are  the  destroyers  of  Jerusalem !  these  are  the  mur- 
derers 
Of  Jesus!  who  deny  the  faith  and  mock  at  eternal  life, 
Who  pretend  to  poetry  that  they  may  destroy  imagination 
By  imitation  of  nature's  images  drawn  from  remembrance. 
These  are  the  sexual  garments,  the  abomination  of  deso- 
lation. 
Hiding  the  human  lineaments,  as  with  an  ark  and  curtains 
Which  Jesus  rent,  and  now  shall  wholly  purge  away  with 

fire, 
Till  generation  is  swallowed  up  in  regeneration. 

From  JERUSALEM 
[To  THE  Deists] 

I  saw  a  Monk  of  Charlemaine 

Arise  before  my  sight: 

I  talked  with  the  Grey  Monk  as  we  stood 

In  beams  of  infernal  light. 

Gibbon  arose  with  a  lash  of  steel, 
And  Voltaire  with  a  racking  wheel; 
The  schools,  in  clouds  of  learning  rolled, 
Arose  with  war  in  iron  and  gold. 

'Thou  lazy  Monk!'  they  sound  afar, 
'In  vain  condemning  glorious  war; 
And  in  your  cell  you  shall  ever  dwell: 
Rise,  War,  and  bind  him  in  his  cell !' 

The  blood  red  ran  from  the  Grey  Monk's  side, 
His  hands  and  feet  were  wounded  wide, 
His  body  bent,  his  arms  and  knees 
Like  to  the  roots  of  ancient  trees. 

When  Satan  first  the  black  bow  bent 
And  the  moral  law  from  the  Gospel  rent, 
He  forged  the  law  into  a  sword, 
And  spilled  the  blood  of  mercy's  Lord. 


GEOEGE    CANNING  343 

Titus !    Constantine !    Charlemaine ! 
O  Voltaire!   Rousseau!    Gibbon!     Vain 
Your  Grecian  mocks  and  Roman  sword 
Against  this  image  of  his  Lord; 

For  a  tear  is  an  intellectual  thing; 
And  a  sigh  is  the  sword  of  an  angel  king; 
And  the  bitter  groan  of  a  martyr's  woe 
Is  an  arrow  from  the  Almighty's  bow. 


UA 


an 


GEOKGE    CANNING 

U'-''^^''      From    THE    PROGRESS    OF    MAN 

[Matrimony  in  Otaheite]  ■  ..i^-**-^ 

There  laughs  the  sky,  there  zephyrs  frolic  train,         ,^,y^ 

And  light-winged  loves,  and  blameless  pleasures  reigns 

There,  when  two  souls  congenial  ties  unite, 

No  hireling  bonzes  chant  the  mystic  rite;  a     j^ 

Free  every  thought,  each  action  unconfined,  ,v<^    ^ 

And  light  those  fetters  which  no  rivets  bind.  p 

There  in  each  grove,  each  sloping  bank  along. 

And  flowers  and  shrubs,  and  odorous  herbs  among,     i  ^ 

Each  shepherd  clasped,  with  undisguised  delight,    i  ^y^ 

His  yielding  fair  one — in  the  captain's  sight;  * 

Each  yielding  fair,  as  chance  or  fancy  led, 

Preferred  new  lovers  to  her  sylvan  bed. 

Learn  hence  each  nymph,  whose  free  aspiring  mind 

Europe's  cold  laws,  and  colder  customs  bind; 

O !  learn  what  Nature's  genial  laws  decree ! 

What  Otaheite  is,  let  Britain  be! 

Of  whist  or  cribbage  mark  th'  amusing  game; 
The  partners  changing,  but  the  sport  the  same: 
Else  would  the  gamester's  anxious  ardour  cool. 
Dull  every  deal,  and  stagnant  every  pool. 
— Yet  must  one  man,  with  one  unceasing  wife. 
Play  the  long  Rubber  of  connubial  life. 


344  ENGLISH   POETS 

Yes!  human  laws,  and  laws  esteemed  divine, 
The  generous  passion  straighten  and  confine; 
And,  as  a  stream,  when  art  constrains  its  course. 
Pours  its  fierce  torrent  with  augmented  force. 
So  passion,  narrowed  to  one  channel  small. 
Unlike  the  former, — does  not  flow  at  all. 
Por  Love  then  only  flaps  his  purple  wings 
When  uncontrolled  by  priestcraft  or  by  kings. 


From   THE  NEW  MOEALITY    f^jL-^^' 
[Anti-Patriotism  and  Sentimentality] 

With  unsparing  hand. 
Oh,  lash  these  vile  impostures  from  the  land! 

First,  stern  Philanthropy, — not  she  who  dries 
The  orphan's  tears,  and  wipes  the  widow's  eyes; 
Not  she  who,  sainted  Charity  her  guide, 
Of  British  bounty  pours  the  annual  tide, — 
But  French  Philanthropy,  whose  boundless  mind 
Glows  with  the  general  love  of  all  mankind; 
Philanthropy,  beneath  whose  baneful  sway 
Each  patriot  passion  sinks,  and  dies  away. 
Taught  in  her  school  t'  imbibe  thy  mawkish  strain, 
Condorcet !  filtered  through  the  dregs  of  Paine,     ^■ 
Each  pert  adept  disowns  a  Briton's  part. 
And  plucks  the  name  of  England  from  his  heart. 
What!  shall  a  name,  a  word,  a  sound,  control 
Th'  aspiring  thought,  and  cramp  th'  expansive  soul? 
Shall  one  half -peopled  island's  rocky  round 
A  love  that  glows  for  all  creation  bound? 
And  social  charities  contract  the  plan 
Framed  for  thy  freedom,  universal  man? 
No — through  th'  extended  globe  his  feelings  run 
As  broad  and  general  as  th'  unbounded  sun! 
No  narrow  bigot  he:  his  reasoned  view 
Thy  interests,  England,  ranks  with  thine,  Peru! 
France  at  our  doors,  he  seeks  no  danger  nigh. 
But  heaves  for  Turkey's  woes  th'  impartial  sigh; 
A  steady  patriot  of  the  world  alone^ 
The  friend  of  every  country  but  his  own.  , 


GEORGE   CANNING  345 

Next  comes  a  gentler  virtue. — Ah,  beware 

Lest  the  harsh  verse  her  shrinking  softness  scare. 

Visit  her  not  too  roughly;  the  warm  sigh 

Breathes^  on  her  lips ;  the  tear-drop  gems  her  eye. 

Sweet  Sensibility,  who  dwells  inshrined 

In  the  fine  foldings  of  the  feeling  mind; 

With  delicate  Mimosa's  sense  endued, 

Who  shrinks,  instinctive,  from  a  hand  too  rude; 

Or,  like  the  anagillis,  prescient  flower, 

Shuts  her  soft  petals  at  th'  approaching  shower. 

Sweet  child  of  sickly  fancy!  her  of  yore 
From  her  loved  France  Rousseau  to  exile  bore; 
And  while  'midst  lakes  and  mountains  wild  he  ran, 
Full  of  himself,  and  shunned  the  haunts  of  man. 
Taught  her  o'er  each  lone  vale  and  Alpine  steep 
To  lisp  the  story  of  his  wrongs,  and  we^; 
Taught  her  to  cherish  still  in  either  eye, 
Of  tender  tears  a  plentiful  supply, 
And  pour  them  in  the  brooks  that  babbled  by: 
Taught  by  nice  scale  to  mete  her  feelings  strong. 
False  by  degrees,  and  exquisitely  wrong; 
For  the  crushed  beetle  first,  the  widowed  dove^ 
And  all  the  warbled  sorrows  of  the  grove, 
Next  for  poor  suffering  guilt, — and  last  of  all,  ■^'ij^' 

For  parents,  friends,   a  king  and  country's  fall. 

Mark  her  fair  votaries,  prodigal  o.f  grief. 
With  cureless  pangs,  and  woes  that  mock  relief. 
Droop  in  soft  sorrow  o'er  a  faded  flower, 
O'er  a  dead  jackass  pour  the  pearly  shower: 
But  hear,  unmoved,  of  Loire's  ensanguined  flood 
Choked  up  with  slain;  of  Lyons  drenched  in  blood; 
Of  crimes  that  blot  the  age,  the  world,  with  shame,  ^^ 

Foul  crimes,  but  sicklied  o'er  with  freedom's  name,—  Z''''*''^^ 
Altars  and  thrones  subverted,  social  life 
Trampled  to  earth,  the  husband  from  the  wife. 
Parent  from  child,  with  ruthless  fury  torn; 
Of  talents,  honour,  virtue,  wit,  forlorn 
In  friendless  exile;  of  the  wise  and  good 
Staining  the  daily  scaffold  with  their  blood. 
Of  savage  cruelties  that  scare  the  mind, 
The  rags  of  madness  with  hell's  lusts  combined. 
Of  hearts  torn  reeking  from  the  mangled  breast, 
They  hear — and  hope,  that  all  is  for  the  best! 


346  E^'GLISH   POETS 

CAROLINA,    LADY    NAIRNE 

THE    LAND    0'   THE   LEAL 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  John, 

Like  snaw-wreaths  in  thaw,  John, 

I'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  John, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  John, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  John, 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  John; 
And  oh!  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
But  sorrow's  sel'  wears  past,  John, 
And  joy's  a-comin'  fast,  John, 
The  joy  that's  aye  to  last 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Sae  dear  that  joy  was  bought,  John, 
Sae  free  the  battle  fought,  John, 
That   sinfu'   man   e'er   brought 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Oh !   dry  your  glistening  e'e,   John, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  John, 
And  angels  beckon  me 

To  .the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Oh!  hand  ye  leal  and  true,  John, 
Your  day  it's  wearin'   through,  John, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 

"to  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare-ye-weel,  my  a  in  John, 
This  warld's  cares  are  vain,  John, 
We'll  meet,  and  we'll  be  fain 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 


INDEX 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Adams.  Jean.  230 
Addison.  Joseph.  9. 
Akenslde.  Mark.  152. 
Anonymous.  121.  234. 

Beattie  James  226. 
Berkele.v.  George  96. 
Blair,  Robert.  146 
Blake.  William.  319. 
Bowles.  W  L  .  276. 
Brooke  Henry.  125. 
Bums.  Robert,  277. 

Canning.  George.  343. 
Chatterton    Thomas,  238. 
Churchill,  Charles.  205. 
Collins    William.  160. 
Cooper.  .J    G  ,  159. 
Cowper.  William.  257. 
Crabbe.  George,  247. 
Cro.xall,  Samuel,  81. 

Dalton.  John,  202. 
Darwin.  Erasmus,  317. 
Day.  Thomas.  244. 
Defoe   Daniel.  6 
Doddridge,  Philip.  123. 
Dyer,  John,  92. 

Elliot.  Jane,  204. 

Fergusson.  Robert,  232. 

Gay   John.  76. 
Goldsmith.  Oliver,  212. 
Gray.  Thomas,  178. 
Green,  Matthew,  129. 

Jago.  Richard,  201. 


Jenyns,  Soame,  121. 
Johnson,  Samuel,  198. 

Langhorne,  John.  234. 
Lindsay,  Lady  Anne,  229. 

Macpherson.  James.  206. 
Mandeville.  Bernard  de,  14. 

Naime,  Lady  Carolina,  346 
Newton,  John,  256. 

"Ossian,"  206 

Pamell,  Thomas,  83 
Philips,  Ambrose,  91. 
Pomfret,  John,  1. 
Pope,  Alexander,  23. 
Prior,  Matthew.  11. 

Ramsay,  Allan,  87. 

Shenstone.  William,  130. 
Skinner,  John,  236. 
Smart,  Christopher,  210. 
Somerville,  William,  123. 
Swift,  Jonathan,  133. 

Thomson,  James,  97. 
Tickell,  Thomas,  82. 
Toplady,  A.  M.,  235. 

Warton,  Joseph,  155. 
Warton,  Thomas,  174. 
Watts,  Isaac,  18. 
Wesley,  Charles,  139. 
Whitehead,  William,  148 
Winchilsea,  Lady,  74. 

Young,  Edward,  114. 


849 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


A  Bard's  Epitaph,  297. 

A  Better  Answer,  13. 

Absence,  2.34. 

A  Cradle  Hymn,  21. 

A  Cradle  Song,  322. 

Address  to  the  Unco  Guid,  298. 

A  Descriptive  Poem,  202. 

Ae  Fond  Kiss,  311. 

A  Hymn  Concluding  the  Seasons, 

106. 
A  Hymn  of  Contentment.  85. 
A  Hymn  to  the  Pillory,  7. 
A  Little  Boy  Lost,  336. 
A  Mans  a  Man  for  A'  That,  314. 
An  Essay  on  Criticism,  23. 
An  Essay  on  Man,  42. 
An  Essay  on  Virtue,  121. 
An  ExceUente  Balade  of  Charitie, 

242. 
A  Night  Piece  on  Death.  83. 
A  Nocturnal  Reverie,  75. 
An  Ode:  from  Alfred,  a  Masque, 

109. 
A  Red,  Red  Rose,  301. 
A  Song  of  Liberty,  333. 
A  Song  to  David,  210. 
Auguries  of  Innocence,  339. 
Auld  Lang  SjTie,  302. 
Auld  Robin  Gray,  229. 
Autumn,  104. 
A  Vision  of  Life  in  Death,  256. 

Conrade,  128. 
Conversation,  258. 

Divine  Ode,  10. 
Dover  Cbflfs,  276. 
Duncan  Gray,  311. 

Elegy    Written     in     a     Coimtry 

Churchyard,  183. 
Epilogue  to  the  Satires,  70. 
Epistle  to  a  Yoimg  Friend,  295. 
Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,  57. 
Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik,  286. 
Evening,  276. 


Fingal,  206. 

First  Epistle  of  the  Second  Book 

of  Horace,  64. 
For  Christmas-Day,  139 
For  Easter-Day,  141. 

Grongar  Hill,  92. 

Highland  Mary,  312. 
Holy  Thursday,  323,  335. 
Hymn  to  Adversity,  181. 

In  Temptation,  142. 
Introduction    to    Songs   of  Inno- 
cence, 320. 
Is  There  for  Honest  Poverty,  314. 

Jerusalem,  342. 

John  Anderson,  My  Jo,  300. 

Last  May  a  Braw  Wooer,  315. 
London,  338. 
Love  of  Fame,  114. 

Mary  Morison,  277. 
Milton,  340. 
Moral  Essays,  53. 
My  Own  Epitaph,  81. 

Night  Thoughts,  117. 

Ode   on   a    Distant    Prospect    of 

Eton  CoUege,  178. 
Ode  on  the  Pleasure  Arising  from 

Vicissitude,  196. 
Ode  on   the   Poetical   Character, 

162. 
Ode  on  the  Popular  Superstitions 

of  the  Highlands,  168. 
Ode  to  Evening,  161. 
Ode  Written  in  the  Beginning  of 

the  Year  1746,  160. 
Of  the  Characters  of  Women,  53. 
O  God,  Our  Help  in  Ages  Past, 

20. 
On  Another's  Sorrow,  325. 


I 


350 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


351 


On  Ridicule,  148. 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  Addison.  82. 

On  the  Receipt  of  My  Mother's 

Picture.  269 
On  Women.  114. 
O,  Synge  Untoe  Mie  Roundelaie. 

240 
O.  Wert  Thou  in  the  Cauld  Blast. 

316 

Prologue  to  Gustavus  Vasa,  128 

Retaliation.  224. 
Rock  ol  Ages.  235. 
Rule,  Britannia,  109. 
Rural  Sports,  76. 

Scots,  Wha  Hae,  313. 

Song:  Fresh  from  the  Dewy  HUl, 

319. 
Songs  from  ^lla,  238. 
Sonnet  to  the  River  Lodon,  178. 
Sonnet    Written    at    Stonehenge, 

177. 
Sonnet  Written  in  Dugdale's  Mo- 

nasticon,  177. 
Spring,  101. 
Summer,  100. 
Sursum,  123. 
Sweet  Afton,  303. 
Sweet      William's     Farewell     to 

Black-Eyed  Susan,  80. 

Table  Talk.  257. 

Tam  o'  Shanter,  305. 

The  Bard,  190. 

The  Beasts'  Confession,  133. 

The  Boddynge  Flourettes  Bloshes 

atte  the  Lyghte,  238. 
The  Book  of  Thel,  326. 
The  Botanic  Garden,  317. 
The  Campaign,  9. 
The  Castaway,  274. 
The  Castle  of  Indolence,  110. 
The  Chase,  123. 
The  Choice,  1. 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  287. 
The  Country  Justice,  234. 
The  Daft  Days,  232. 
The  Day  of  Judgment,  19. 
The  Deserted  Village,  214. 
The  Desolation  of  America,  244. 
The  Divine  Image,  324. 
The  Dunciad,  71. 


The  Dying  Hadrian  to  His  Soul, 
13. 

The  Enthusiast,  150. 

The  Enthusiast;  or.  The  Lover  of 
Nature,  155. 

The  Fable     of     the     Bees     (The 
Grumbling  Hive),  14. 

The  Fatal  Sisters,  194. 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest,  204. 

The  Fly,  334. 

The  French  Revolution,  331. 

The  Garden  of  Love,  336, 

The  Gentle  Shepherd,  87. 

The  Ghost,  205. 

The  Goldfinches,  201. 

The  Grave,  146. 

The  Grave  of  King  Arthur,  176. 

The  Grumbling  Hive,  14. 

The  Happy  Savage,  121. 

The  Happy  Trio,  303. 

The  Hazard  of  Loving  the  Crea- 
tures, 18. 

The  Holy  Fair,  277. 

The  Lamb,  321. 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal,  346. 

The  Library,  247. 

The  Little  Black  Boy,  322. 

The    Lovely    Lass    of   Inverness, 
301 

The  Minstrel,  226. 

The  New  Morality,  344. 

The  Passions,  164. 

The    Pleasm-es    of    Imagination, 
152 

The  Pleasures  of  Melancholy,  174. 

The  Power  of  Harmony,  159. 

The  Progress  of  Man.  343 

The  Progress  of  Poesy.  187. 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock.  32. 

The  Rosciad,  205. 

The  Schoolboy,  337. 

The  Schoolmistress,  130. 

The  Seasons,  97. 

The  Shepherd's  Week,  76. 

The  Shrubbery,  259 

The  Songs  of  Sehna,  208. 

The  Spleen,  129. 

The  Task,  260. 

The  Tiger,  335. 

The  Traveller,  212. 

The  True-Bom  Englishman,  6. 

The  Vanity    of    Human    Wishes 
198. 

The  Village,  248. 

The  Vision,  81. 


352  INDEX    OF   TITLES 

There's    Nae    Luck    About    the  Translation  of  the  Iliad,  40. 

House,  230.  Z"7,'\'^^-          oQfi 

To  a  Child  of  QuaUty,  Five  Years  Tullochgorum,  236. 

Old,  11. 

To  a  Lady,  12.  Universal  Beauty.  125. 
To  a  Louse,  284. 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  293.  Verses  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Swift, 

To  a  Mouse,  202.  ^37 

To  a  Young  Lady,  259.  Verses  on  the  Prospect  of  Plant- 
To  Mary,  272.  iug  Arts  and  Learning  in  Amer- 
To  Mary  in  Heaven,  304.  ^^^   gg 
To  Miss  Charlotte  Pulteney,  91. 
To  the  Deists.  342. 

To  the  Muses,  320.  Winter,  97^ 

Tr^  tvio  T^iio-htinc'alp    74  Wrestling  Jacob,  143. 

TO  wLfer'  ilg!  Written  at  an  Inn  at  Henley,  132. 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES 


Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever,  311. 

Ah!  what  a  weary  race  my  feet  have  run.  178. 

All  in  a  garden,  on  a  currant  bush,  201. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moored,  80. 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true,  230. 

And  did  those  feet  in  ancient  time,  340. 

As  once — if  not  with  light  regard,  162. 

A  spacious  hive,  well  stocked  with  bees,  14. 

As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store.  212. 

Aumont  went  out,  and  stood  in  the  hollow  porch,  331. 

Awake,  iEolian  lyre,  awake,  187. 

Awake,  my  St.  John !  leave  all  meaner  things,  42. 

Behold  in  awful  march  and  dread  array.  9. 
Beneath  the  south  side  of  a  craigy  bield,  87. 
Beneath  yon  ruined  abbey's  moss-grown  piles,  174. 
Be  this,  you  rural  magistrates,  your  plan.  234 
Britons !  this  night  presents  a  state  distressed,  128. 
But  see !  the  fading  many-coloured  woods,  104. 
By  the  blue  taper's  trembling  light,  83. 

Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave,  82. 

Can  I  see  another's  woe,  325. 

Christ  the  Lord  is  risen  to-day,  141. 

Close  to  those  walls  where  Folly  holds  her  throne,  71. 

Come,  gentle  Spring,  ethereal  mildness,  come,  101. 

Come  gie's  a  sang,  Montgomery  cried,  236. 

Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown,  143. 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power,  181. 
Dear  Chloe,  how  blubbered  is  that  pretty  face,  13. 
Deem  not  devoid  of  elegance  the  sage,  177. 
Dispersed  through  every  copse  or  marshy  plain,  127. 
Dubius  is  such  a  scrupulous  good  man,  258. 
Dimcan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo,  311. 

England,  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still,  262. 
Evening !  as  slow  thy  placid  shades  descend,  276. 
Exert  thy  voice,  sweet  harbinger  of  Spring,  74. 

Flow  gently,  sweet  Afton,  among  thy  green  braes,  303. 
Forever  running  an  enchanted  round,  100. 
Fresh  from  the  dewy  hill,  the  merry  year,  319. 
Fret  not  thyself,  thou  glittering  child  of  pride,  226. 
Fruitless  is  the  attempt  by  dull  obedience,  152. 

Gemmed  o'er  their  heads  the  mines  of  India  gleam,  126. 

353 


354  INDEX   OF   FIRST    LINES 

Hail  hieroglyphic  state-machine,  7. 

Hail,  thrice  hail !     Ye  solitary  seats,  159. 

Hark !  how  all  the  welkin  rings,  139. 

Hark!  'tis  the  twanging  horn!     O'er  yonder  bndge,  264. 

Ha!  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie,  284. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow,  130. 

Here  hes  om-  good  Edmund,  whose  genius  was  such,  224. 

Here  on  this  verdant  spot,  where  nature  kind,  123. 

His  eyes,  in  gloomy  socket  taught  to  roll,  205. 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august,  117. 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest,  160. 

How  would  the  sons  of  Troy,  in  arms  renowned.  40. 

H ,  thou  return'st  from  Thames,  whose  Naiads  long,  168. 

Hush!  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber,  21. 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense,  286. 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop,  or  pastoral  song,  161. 

If  clothed  in  black  you  tread  the  busy  town,  79. 

If  Heaven  the  grateful  Uberty  would  give,  1. 

I  lang  hae  thought,  my  youthful  friend,  295. 

I  love  to  rise  in  a  summer  morn,  337. 

I'm  wearin'  awa',  John,  346. 

In  each  she  marks  her  image  full  expressed,  72. 

In  evil  long  I  took  deUght,  256. 

In  full-blown  dignity  see  Wolsey  stand,  198. 

In  man,  the  more  we  dive,  the  more  we  see,  119. 

In  such  a  night,  when  every  louder  wind,  75. 

In  vain,  in  vain — the  all-compelling  hour,  73. 

In  Virgine  the  sweltrie  sun  gan  sheene,  242. 

I  rue  the  day,  a  rueful  day  I  trow,  76. 

I  saw  a  Monk  of  Charlemaine,  342. 

I  see,  I  see,  swift  bursting  througli  the  shade,  244. 

Is  tliere  a  whim-inspired  fool,  297. 

Is  there  for  honest  poverty,  314. 

Is  this  a  holy  thing  to  see,  335. 

I've  heard  them  lilting,  at  our  ewe-miUdng,  204. 

I  wander  through  each  chartered  street.  338. 

I  was  a  stricken  deer  that  left  the  herd,  264. 

I  went  to  the  Garden  of  Love,  336. 

I  would  not  enter  on  my  Ust  of  friends,  269. 

Jesu,  lover  of  my  soul,  142. 
John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John,  300. 

Know  then  thyself,  presume  not  God  to  scan,  49. 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang  glen,  315. 

Life  is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it,  81. 

Little  fly,  334. 

Little  lamb,  who  made  thee,  321. 

Live  ever  here,  Lorenzo'?    shocking  thought!  117. 

Lords,  knights,  and  squires,  the  numerous  band,  11. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind,  85. 

My  loved,  my  honoured,  much  respected  friend.  287, 
My  mother  bore  me  in  the  southern  wild,  322. 


INDEX    OF   FIRST    LINES  355 

Naught  loves  another  as  itself,  336. 

Near  some  fair  town  I'd  have  a  private  seat,  1. 

Notliing  so  true  as  what  you  once  let  fall,  53. 

Not  with  more  glories  in  th'  ethereal  plain,  32. 

Now  mirk  December's  dowie  face,  232. 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft,  196. 

Now  the  storm  begins  to  lower,  194. 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky,  274. 

O'er  Cornwall's  cliffs  the  tempest  roared,  176. 

O  God,  our  help  in  ages  past,  20. 

O  happy  shades  !  to  me  unblest,  259. 

Oh  blind  to  truth,  and  God's  whole  scheme  below,  49. 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness,  261. 

Oh,  happy  he  who  never  saw  the  face,  121. 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be,  277. 

O  mortal  man,  who  hvest  here  by  toil,  110. 

O,  my  luv  is  like  a  rod,  red  rose,  301. 

O  Nature,  whom  the  song  aspiies  to  scan,  125. 

Once — I  remember  well  the  day,  150. 

On  these  wliite  cliffs,  that  calm  above  the  flood,  276. 

O  synge  untoe  mie  roundelaie,  240. 

O  that  those  lips  had  language !     Life  has  passed,  269. 

Our  mirthful  age,  to  all  extremes  a  prey,  148. 

O,  wert  thou  in  the  cauld  blast,  316. 

O,  Willie  brew'd  a  peck  o'  maut,  303. 

O  Winter!  bar  thine  adamantine  doors,  319. 

O  ye  wha  are  sae  guid  youisel',  298. 

Pensive  beneath  a  spreading  oak  I  stood,  81. 
Piping  down  the  valleys  wild,  320. 
Pity  religion  has  so  seldom  found,  257. 
Pomposo,  insolent  and  loud,  205. 
Poor,  little,  pretty,  fluttering  thing,  13. 

Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me,  235. 
Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king,  190. 

Scenes  that  soothed  or  charmed  me  young,  260. 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled,  313. 

See  yonder  hallowed  fane; — the  pious  work,  146. 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot.  302. 

Shut,  shut  the  door,  good  John  !  fatigued,  I  said,  57. 

Silent  Nymph,  with  curious  eye,  92. 

Spare,  generous  victor,  spare  the  slave,  12. 

Stay  your  rude  steps !  whose  throbbing  breasts  infold,  317. 

Strong  is  the  lion — Uke  a  coal,  210. 

Such  blessings  Nature  pours,  114. 

Sweet  Auburn !  loveliest  village  of  the  plain,  214. 

Sweet  dreams,  form  a  shade,  322. 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade,  259. 

The  boddynge  flourettes  bloshes  atte  the  lyghte,  238. 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day,  183. 

The  daughters  of  [the]  Seraphiai  lei  rauni  t.ieir  sunny  flocks,  326. 


356  INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 

The  Eternal  Female  groaned !    It  was  heard  over  all,  333. 

The  keener  tempests  come;  and,  fuming  dun,  97. 

The  lovely  lass  of  Inverness,  301. 

The  Muse,  disgusted  at  an  age  and  cUme,  96. 

The  negation  is  the  Spectre,  the  rea.soning  power  in  man,  341, 

The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood,  267. 

Then  shame  to  manhood,  and  opprobrious  more,  265. 

There  laughs  the  sky,  there  zephyrs  frolic  train,  343. 

The  Romans  first  witii  Julius  Caesar  came,  6. 

These,  as  they  change,  Almighty  Father,  these,  106. 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high,  10. 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past,  272. 

The  village  life,  and  every  care  that  reigns,  248. 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray,  304. 

Thou  most  indulgent,  most  tremendous  Power,  118. 

Thou  noblest  monument  of  Albion's  isle,  177. 

Thus  beauty,  mimicked  in  our  humbler  strains,  125. 

Tiger  !  Tiger  !  burning  bright,  335.  ' 

Timely  blossom,  infant  fair,  91. 

'Tis  hard  to  say  if  greater  want  of  skill,  23. 

To  cure  the  mind's  wrong  bias,  spleen,  129. 

To  Mercy,  Pity,  Peace,  and  Love,  324. 

To  nature's  pride,  sweet  Keswick's  vale,  202. 

To  see  a  world  in  a  grain  of  sand,  339. 

To  thee,  fair  freedom !     I  retire,  132. 

To  thee,  the  world  its  present  homage  pays,  64. 

'Twas  on  a  Holy  Thursday,  their  innocent  faces  clean,  323. 

Upon  a  simmer  Sunday  mom,  277. 

Vain  human  kind !  fantastic  race !  137. 

"Weak  with  nice  sense,  the  chaste  Mimosa  stands,  318. 

"Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r,  293. 

"Wee,  sleekit,  cowrin,  tim'rous  beastie,  292. 

"Were  once  these  maxims  fixed,  that  God's  our  friend,  121. 

"What  do  I  love — what  is  it  that  mine  eyes,  128. 

When  beasts  could  speak,  (the  learned  say),  133. 

"When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command,  109. 

"When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street,  305. 

"When  I  think  on  the  happy  days,  234. 

"When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young,  164. 

"When  the  fierce  north-wind  with  his  airy  forces,  19. 

"When  the  ploughman  leaves  the  task  of  day,  76. 

"When  the  sad  soul  by  care  and  grief  oppressed,  247. 

"When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame,  229, 

Where'er  my  flattering  passions  rove,  18. 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow,  320. 

With  unsparing  hand,  oh  lash  these  vile  impostures,  344. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around,  312. 
Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers,  178. 
Ye  golden  lamps  of  heaven,  farewell,  123. 
Ye  green-robed  Dryads,  oft  at  dusky  eve,  155. 
Ye  self-sufficient  sons  of  reasoning  pride,  127. 
Yes,  I  am  proud;  I  must  be  proud  to  see,  70. 


GLOSSARY 


A', 

aU. 

Bane, 

bone. 

Abeigfi, 

off. 

Bante, 

cursed. 

Aboon, 

above. 

Barefit, 

barefoot. 

Aborde, 

went  on. 

Bank, 

cross-beam. 

Abread, 

abroad. 

Bauldly. 

boldly. 

Acquent, 

acquainted. 

Bear, 

barley. 

Ae, 

one. 

Bederoll, 

string  of  beads. 

Aff, 

off. 

Beet, 

fan,  kindle. 

Aften, 

often. 

Beld, 

bald. 

Agley, 

askew. 

Bell, 

flower. 

Aiblins, 

maybe. 

Belyve, 

by  and  by. 

Ain, 

own. 

Ben, 

inner  room,  par- 

Airt, 

direction,  quar- 

lor, inside. 

ter. 

Bicker, 

bowl. 

Aith, 

oath. 

Bickering, 

hurrying. 

Alane, 

alone. 

Bield, 

shelter. 

Alang, 

along. 

Big, 

build. 

Albeytte, 

albeit. 

Bigonet, 

linen  cap. 

Alestake, 

alehouse  sign. 

Billie, 

fellow. 

Alleyne, 

alone. 

Birk, 

birch. 

Aimer, 

beggar. 

Birkie, 

conceited  fellow. 

Amaist, 

almost. 

Bizz, 

buzz. 

Amang,  aming. 

among. 

Black-bonnet, 

elder. 

An, 

if. 

Blake, 

bleak. 

Ance, 

once. 

Blastie, 

damned  creature 

Ane, 

one. 

Blastit, 

damned. 

Arist, 

arose. 

Blate, 

shy. 

Ashrewed, 

accursed. 

Blaw, 

blow,  draught. 

Asklent, 

askance. 

Bleer't, 

bleared. 

Asteer, 

astir. 

Bleeze, 

blaze. 

Astonied, 

stunned. 

Blellum, 

babbler. 

Atte, 

at. 

Blethering, 

gabliling. 

Attene, 

at  one. 

BUn, 

Wind. 

Auld, 

old. 

Blink, 

glance,  moment. 

Aumere, 

mantle. 

Bloshes, 

blushes. 

Autremete, 

robe. 

Bluid, 

blood. 

Ava, 

at  all. 

Boddle, 

farthing. 

Awa, 

away. 

Boddynge, 

budding. 

Aynewarde, 

backward. 

Bogillis, 

hobgoblins. 

Bogle, 

bogie. 

Bairn, 

child. 

Bonie, 

pretty. 

Bailh, 

both. 

Bonilie, 

prettily. 

Bake, 

biscuit. 

Bonnet, 

cap. 

Bandsters, 

binders  of 

Bore, 

chink. 

sheaves. 

Botte, 

but. 

357 


358 

GLOSSARY 

Bra, 

fine. 

Chirm, 

chirp. 

Brae, 

hillside. 

Chows, 

chews. 

Braid, 

broad. 

Church-glebe- 

Braid-claith, 

broadcloth. 

house, 

grave. 

Brak, 

broke. 

Claes, 

clothes. 

Braste, 

burst. 

Claithing, 

clothing. 

Brattle, 

scamper,  clatter. 

Clamb, 

cUmbed. 

Braw,  brawlie. 

fine. 

Claught, 

seized. 

Bree, 

liquor. 

Cleek, 

catch  up. 

Breaks, 

breeches. 

Clinkin, 

smartly. 

Bretful, 

brimful. 

Clinkumbell, 

the  bell-ringer. 

Brent, 

straight. 

Clymmynge, 

noisy. 

Brig, 

bridge. 

Cockernony, 

woman's  hair 

Brither, 

brother. 

gathered  up 

Brogues, 

breeches. 

with  a  band. 

Brownyis, 

brownies. 

Cofte, 

bought. 

Browster, 

brewer. 

Cog, 

basin. 

Brunstane, 

brimstone. 

Cood, 

cud. 

Bught, 

pen,  inclosure. 

Coast, 

cast. 

Buke, 

boolc. 

Corbie, 

raven. 

Burdies, 

girls. 

Core, 

company. 

Burn, 

brook. 

Cotter, 

tenant  of  a  co*"' 

Busk, 

dress,  make 

tage. 

ready. 

Coulter, 

ploughshare. 

Busline, 

fustian. 

Countra, 

country. 

But,  butt. 

outer  room. 

Cour, 

stoop. 

kitchen. 

Couth,  couthy. 

sociable,  affable. 

without. 

Crack, 

chat,  instant. 

Byke, 

hive. 

Craig, 

rock. 

Cranreuch, 

hoar-frost. 

Ca', 

call,  drive. 

Craw, 

crow. 

Cadgy, 

cheerful,  gay. 

Creeshie, 

greasy. 

Cairn, 

heap  of  stones. 

Croon, 

loll,  miirmur. 

Caldrife, 

cool,  spiritless. 

Crouche, 

crucifix. 

Cale, 

cold. 

Croun, 

crown. 

Caller, 

cool. 

Crouse, 

proud,  lively. 

Canna, 

cannot. 

Crowdie, 

porridge,  break- 

Cannie, 

careful,  crafty. 

fast. 

Cannilie, 

craftily. 

Crowlin, 

crawling. 

Cantie,  canty. 

cheerful,  jolly. 

Crurnmock, 

crooked  staff. 

Cantraip. 

magic,  witchcraft 

Crump, 

crisp. 

Capernoily, 

ill-natured. 

Cryne, 

hair. 

Carlin, 

old  woman. 

Cuif, 

dolt. 

Cates, 

dainties. 

Curchie, 

curtsy. 

Cauld, 

cold. 

Cutty, 

short. 

Caup, 

cup. 

Celness, 

coldness. 

Daffing, 

frolicking. 

Cess, 

excise,  tax. 

Daft, 

foolish. 

Chafe, 

chafing. 

Dail, 

board,  plank. 

Change-house, 

tavern. 

Daimen, 

rare,  occasional. 

Chapman, 

peddler. 

Daur, 

dare. 

Chapournette, 

hat. 

Daw, 

dawn. 

Chelandri, 

goldfinch. 

Dawd, 

lump. 

Cheres, 

cheers. 

Deave, 

deafen. 

Cheves, 

moves. 

Dee, 

die. 

GLOSSARY 

359 

Defeat, 

defeated. 

FaU'rils, 

falderals,  finery. 

Defte, 

neat. 

Faut, 

fault. 

Deil, 

devil. 

Feck, 

bulk. 

Dente, 

fasten. 

Fell, 

deadly,  pungent. 

Dheere, 

there. 

Fend, 

keep  off. 

Die, 

dye. 

Ferlie,  ferly. 

wonder. 

Differ, 

difference. 

Fetive, 

festive. 

Dine, 

noon. 

Fidge, 

fidget. 

Dirl, 

vibrate,  ring. 

Fient, 

fiend,  de-vil. 

Dit, 

sliut. 

Fiere, 

chum. 

Domes, 

volumes. 

Fit, 

foot. 

Donsie, 

reckless. 

Flainen,flannen 

flannel. 

Dool, 

pain,  grief. 

Flang, 

kicked. 

Dorture, 

slumber. 

Fleech, 

wheedle. 

Douce, 

grave,  prudent. 

Flet, 

remonstrated. 

Douff, 

dull,  sad. 

Flichterin', 

fluttering. 

Dow, 

can. 

Fling, 

waving. 

Dowie, 

drooping. 

Flott, 

fly. 

gloomy. 

Flourettes, 

flowers. 

Drappie, 

small  drop. 

Fog  gage. 

coarse  grass. 

Drcnche, 

drink. 

Forswat, 

stmburned. 

Drented, 

drenched. 

Forwind, 

dried  up. 

Bringing, 

droning. 

Fou, 

very,  drunk,  fuU. 

Droddum, 

breech. 

Fourth,  fouth. 

abundance. 

Drouthy, 

tliirsty. 

plenty. 

Drowsyhed, 

drowsiness. 

Frae, 

from. 

Drumlie, 

muddy. 

Fructyle, 

fruitful. 

Dub, 

puddle. 

Fu\ 

full,  very. 

Duddie, 

ragged. 

Furm, 

long  seat. 

Buddies, 

rags. 

Fyke, 

fuss. 

Dwyning, 

failing,  pining. 

Fyle, 

soil. 

Dyke, 

wall. 

Dynne, 

noise. 

Gab, 

mouth. 

Gabbing, 

talking. 

Eathe. 

ease. 

Gae, 

go. 

Ke, 

eye. 

Gaed,  gaid. 

went. 

Een, 

eyes. 

Gallard, 

frightened. 

Eerie, 

imcanny. 

Gane, 

gone. 

timorous. 

Gang, 

go. 

Efte, 

often. 

Gar, 

make. 

Eftsoons, 

forthwith. 

Gart, 

made. 

Eldritch, 

unearthly. 

Gash. 

shrewd,  self- 

Embollen, 

swollen. 

complacent. 

Enlefed, 

leafed  out. 

Gat, 

got. 

Ermelin, 

ermine. 

Gate, 

way. 

Ettle, 

aim. 

Gaun,  gawn. 

going. 

Eydent, 

diligent. 

Gawsie, 

buxom,  jolly. 

Gear, 

things,  goods. 

Fa', 

befaU,  fall. 

Geek, 

mock. 

Fairin', 

a  gift  from  a  fair. 

Ghaist, 

ghost. 

Fairn-year, 

last  year. 

Ghastness, 

ghastliness. 

Faitour, 

vagabond. 

Gibbet-aim, 

gibbet-iron. 

Fand, 

foimd. 

Gie,  gi'e. 

give. 

Fan, 

meal  cake. 

Gie's, 

give  U.S,  give  me. 

Fash, 

bother. 

Giftie, 

little  gift. 

360 

GLOSSARY 

Gill, 

glass  of  whiskey. 

Het, 

hot 

Gin, 

if.  by. 

Hie. 

high,  highly. 

Glaikit, 

foolish. 

Hight, 

was  called 

Glint, 

flash. 

Hiltring, 

hiding. 

Glommed, 

gloomy. 

Hing, 

hang. 

Gloure, 

glory. 

Hinny, 

honey,  sweet. 

Gowan, 

wild  daisy. 

Hirple, 

hop. 

Gowd, 

gold. 

Histie, 

bare,  dry. 

Gowk, 

fool. 

Hizzie, 

girl,  jade. 

Grane, 

groan. 

Hoddin, 

jogging. 

Grat, 

wept. 

Hoddin  grey. 

undyed  woolen 

Gre, 

grow. 

Holme, 

evergreen  oak. 

Gree, 

prize. 

Hornie, 

the  Devil. 

'Gree, 

agree. 

Hotch, 

jerk. 

Greet, 

weep. 

Houghmagandie 

,  fornication,  dis- 

Grein, 

long  for. 

grace. 

Grozet, 

gooseberry. 

Houlet, 

owl. 

Gude,  guid. 

good. 

Hound, 

incite  to  pursuit. 

Gudeman, 

Hum, 

humbug. 

guidman. 

husband. 

Hurdies, 

buttocks. 

Guidwife, 

married    woman. 

mistress  of  the 

Icker, 

ear  of  grain. 

house. 

Ilka, 

each,  every. 

Guidwillie, 

full  of  good  will. 

Ingle, 

fireside. 

Gusty, 

savory. 

Guylteynge, 

gilding. 

Jad, 

jade. 

Ha\ 
Hae, 
Haffets, 

haU. 
have. 

temples,  side- 
locks. 

Jape, 
Jauds, 
Jauk, 
Jaw, 

surplice, 
jades, 
trifle, 
strike,  dash. 

Jo. 

sweetheart. 

Haffiins, 

Hafflins-wise, 

Hairst, 

half. 

about  half, 
harvest-time. 

Joicie, 
Jow, 

juicy, 
swing. 

Hald, 

holding,  posses- 

sion. 

Kebbuck, 

cheese. 

Halesome, 

wholesome. 

Kebbuck-heel, 

last  bit  of  cheese 

Ha  11  an. 

partition-wall. 

Keek, 

peep. 

Hallie, 

holy. 

Kelpie, 

water-spirit. 

Halline, 

gladness. 

Ken, 

know. 

Haly, 

holy. 

Kend. 

known. 

Hamely, 

homely. 

Kennin. 

trifle. 

Hap-step-an' - 

Kest, 

cast. 

loup. 

hop,  step,  and 

Kiaugh. 

fret. 

jump. 

Kickshaws, 

delicacies. 

Ham, 

coarse  linen. 

Kiltit, 

tucked  up. 

Hartsome, 

hearty,  merry. 

Kirk. 

church. 

Hash, 

stupid     fellow. 

Kiste. 

coffin. 

dolt. 

Kittle. 

tickle. 

Hand, 

hold,  keep. 

Knappin-ham- 

Hawkie, 

cow. 

mer. 

hammer  for 

Hawslock, 

throat-lock. 

breaking  stone 

choicest  wool. 

Kye. 

kine,  cattle. 

Heapet, 

heaped. 

Kynde, 

nature,  species. 

Heie, 

they. 

womankind. 

GLOSSARY 

36] 

Lade, 

load. 

Misca'd, 

miscalled. 

Laird, 

lord,  land-owner. 

Mist, 

poor. 

Laith, 

loath. 

Mittie. 

mighty. 

Lailhfu', 

sheepish,  bashful. 

Moe, 

more. 

Landscip, 

landscape. 

Mole, 

soft. 

Lane, 

lone. 

Moneynge, 

moaning. 

Lang, 

long. 

Monie,  mony. 

many. 

Lap, 

leaped. 

Mou, 

mouth. 

Lave. 

rest. 

Muckle, 

much,  great. 

Lav' rock. 

lark. 

Muir, 

heath. 

Lear, 

learning. 

Leel, 

loyal. 

Na,  nae. 

no,  not. 

Lee-lang, 

live-long. 

Naething, 

nothing. 

Leeze  me  on. 

commend  me  to. 

Naig, 

nag. 

Leglen,  leglin. 

milk-pail. 

Nappy, 

ale. 

Lemes, 

gleams. 

Ne, 

no. 

Leugh. 

laughed. 

Neebor, 

neighbor. 

Leuk. 

look. 

Neidher, 

neither. 

Levynne, 

lightning. 

Neist. 

next. 

Lift, 

sky. 

Nesh, 

tender. 

Lilt, 

sing  merrily. 

Nete, 

night,  naught. 

Limitour, 

begging  friar. 

Neuk, 

nook,  corner. 

Linkan, 

tripping. 

Niffer, 

e.xchange. 

Linket, 

tripped. 

No, 

not. 

Linn, 

waterfall. 

Lint. 

flax. 

Onie,  ony, 

any. 

Loan,  loaning. 

lane,  path. 

Ouphant, 

elfln. 

Loo'ed, 

loved. 

Owr,  owre,  ower 

,  over. 

Loof, 

palm. 

Loot, 

let. 

Paidle, 

paddle,  wade. 

Loun, 

clown,  rascal. 

Pall. 

appal. 

Loup, 

leap. 

Pang, 

cram. 

Loverds, 

lords. 

Parritch, 

porridge. 

Lowe, 

flame. 

Pattle, 

plough-staff. 

Lowin, 

flaming. 

Peed, 

pied. 

Lowings, 

flashes. 

Pencte, 

painted. 

Lowp, 

leap. 

Penny-wheep, 

small  beer. 

Lug, 

ear. 

Peres, 

pears. 

Lunardi, 

balloon,  bonnet. 

Perishe, 

destroy. 

Luv, 

love. 

Pet, 

be  in  a  pet. 

Lyart, 

gray,  gray- 

Pheeres, 

mates. 

haired. 

Pint-stowp, 

two-quart     niea 
sure,  flagon. 

Mail  en. 

farm. 

Plaidie, 

shawl  used  as 

Mair, 

more. 

cloak. 

Mantels, 

mantles. 

Plaister, 

plaster. 

Mar, 

more. 

Pleugh, 

plough. 

Maun, 

must. 

Poortith, 

poverty. 

Maut, 

malt. 

Pou, 

pull,  pluck. 

Mees, 

meadows. 

Pow, 

pate. 

Meikle, 

big. 

Prankt, 

gayly  adorned. 

Meldcr, 

grinding  of  grain. 

Press, 

cupboard. 

Melvie, 

soil  with  meal. 

Propine, 

Mim, 

prim. 

propone. 

present. 

Mirk, 

dark. 

Pund, 

poxmd. 

362 

GLOSSARY 

Pussie, 

hare. 

Shouther, 

shoulder. 

Pyke, 

peaked. 

Sic, 

such. 

Quean, 

lass. 

Siller, 
Simmer, 

silver,  money, 
summer. 

Quorum, 

company. 

Sin', 

since. 

Raible, 

rattle  oflf. 

Skeigh, 

skittish. 

Rair, 

roar. 

Skellum, 

good-for-nothing. 

Rant. 

song,  lay. 

Skelp, 

run  quickly. 

Rape, 

rope. 

Skiffing, 

moving  along 

Raw, 

row. 

lightly. 

Reaming, 
Reck, 

foaming, 
observe. 

Skirl, 
Skriech, 

squeal,  scream, 
screech. 

Rede, 

counsel. 

Slaes, 

sloes. 

Red  up. 

Reek, 

cleared  up. 
smoke. 

Slap, 
Slea, 

gap  in  a  fence, 
slay. 

Rrikie, 

(smoky),  Edin- 

Sleekit, 

sleek. 

Restricket, 

burgh, 
restricted. 

Slid, 
Smeddum, 

smooth, 
powder. 

Reveled, 

ravelled,  trouble- 

Smethe, 

smoke. 

some. 

Smoor, 

smother. 

Reynynge, 

running 

Smothe, 
Snaw, 

Svell, 

vapor. 

Reytes, 
Rig, 

water-flags,  iris, 
ridge. 

snow, 
bitter. 

Rigwoodie, 
Rin, 

lean,  tough, 
rim. 

Snooded, 

boimd  up  with  a 
flUet. 

Rodde,  roddie. 

ruddy. 

Snoot, 

cringe. 

Rodded. 

grew  red. 

Solan, 

gannet. 

Rode, 

skin. 

Soote, 

sweet. 

Rosel,  rozet. 

rosin. 

Souter, 

cobbler. 

Rowan, 

rolling. 

Spak, 

spoke. 

Rudde, 

ruddy. 

Spean, 

wean. 

Runkled, 

wrinkled. 

Speel, 

climb. 

Spier, 

ask,  inquire. 

Sobbing, 

sobbing. 

Spraing, 

stripe. 

Sae, 

so. 

Sprattle, 

scramble. 

Softly, 

softly. 

Spreckled, 

speckled. 

Sair, 

serve,  sore,  sorely. 

Sprenged, 

sprinkled. 

Sang, 

song. 

Spryte, 

spirit. 

Sark, 

shirt,  chemise. 

Squaltle, 

squat. 

Saul, 

soul. 

Stacker, 

stagger,  totter. 

Saunt, 

saint. 

Slane, 

stone. 

Saut, 

salt. 

Steer, 

stir. 

Seantlins, 

scarcely. 

Steyned, 

stained. 

Scoured, 

ran. 

Stibble, 

stubble. 

Screed, 

rip,  rent. 

Still, 

ever. 

Sede, 

seed. 

Stirk, 

young  steer. 

Semecope, 

jacket. 

Stole, 

robe. 

Sets, 

patterns. 

Stonen, 

stony. 

Sevenleen-hun- 

Stole, 

stout. 

der. 

very  fine  (linen). 

Stoure, 

dust,  struggle. 

Shackled, 

feeble,  shapeless. 

Stown, 

stolen. 

Shaw, 

show. 

Strang, 

strong. 

Shiel, 

shelter. 

Strath, 

river-valley. 

Shool, 

shovel. 

Strathspeys, 

dances    for    two 

Shoon, 

shoes. 

persons. 

GLOSSARY 


363 


Straughte, 
Strunt, 
Sugh, 
Sumph', 

stretched, 
strut, 
sough,  moan. 

Unkend, 
Usquabae, 

unknown,  disre- 
garded, 
whiskey. 

blockhead. 

Swanges, 

swings. 

Vauntie, 

proud. 

Swankie, 

strapping  youth. 

Vera,  verra. 

very. 

Sumt, 

sweated. 

Vest, 

robe. 

Swatch, 

sample. 

View, 

appearance. 

Swats, 

foaming  new  ale. 

Virgine, 

the  Virgin  (in  the 

Swith, 

shoo!  begone! 

zodiac). 

Swote, 

sweet. 

Swythyn, 
Syne, 

quickly, 
since,  then. 

Wabster, 
Wad, 

weaver, 
would. 

Wae, 

woe,  sad. 

Taen, 

taken. 

Waesucks, 

alas. 

Tapmost, 

topmost. 

Waff. 

stray,  wandering. 

Tauld, 

told. 

Wale. 

choice. 

Tent, 

watch. 

Wark, 

work. 

Tentie, 

heedful. 

Warld. 

world. 

Tere, 

muscle. 

Warlock. 

wizard. 

Thae, 

those. 

Wa's, 

walls. 

Thieveless, 

useless. 

Water-fit, 

river's  mouth. 

Thilk, 

that  same. 

Waught, 

draught. 

Thir, 

these. 

Wanking, 

waking. 

Thole, 

endure. 

Wawlie. 

goodly. 

Thrang, 

throng,   throng- 

Wear up. 

gather  in. 

ing,  busy. 

Wede, 

passed,  faded. 

Thrave, 

twenty-four 

Weede, 

attire. 

sheaves. 

Weel, 

well. 

Thraw, 

twist. 

Weel-hained, 

carefully  saved. 

Thrawart, 

perverse. 

Ween, 

believe. 

Tint, 

lost. 

Weet, 

wet. 

Tippeny, 

twopenny  (ale). 

Weir. 

war. 

Tither, 

the  other. 

Wha. 

who. 

Tittlin', 

whispering. 

Whovi. 

whom. 

Tochelod, 

dowered?  dipped? 

Whang, 

large  piece,  slice. 

Tod, 

fox. 

Whare, 

where. 

Tout, 

toot,  blast. 

Whase, 

whose. 

Tow, 

rope. 

Whestling, 

whistling. 

Towmond, 

twelvemonth. 

Whig-mig- 

Towsie, 

shaggy. 

morum. 

talking  politics. 

Toy, 

cap. 

Whinging, 

whining. 

Transmugrify'd,  changed,  meta- 

Whins, 

furze. 

morphosed. 

Whunstane, 

hard   rock,    mill 

Tryste, 

appointment. 

stone. 

fair. 

Whyles. 

sometimes. 

Twa,  tway. 

two. 

Wiiina. 

will  not 

Tyke, 

cur,  dog. 

Winnock- 

bunkcr. 

window-seat. 

Unco, 

imcommon,  very. 

Woddie, 

woody. 

Uncos, 
Unfald, 
Ungentle, 
Unhailie, 

news,  wonders, 
unfold, 
mean, 
unhappy. 

Wonner, 

Woo, 

Wood, 

Wordy. 

wonder, 
wool, 
mad. 
worthy. 

364 

GLOSSARY 

Wrack, 

wreck. 

Yblent, 

blended. 

Wraith, 

spectre. 

Yer, 

your. 

Wrang, 

wrong. 

Yestreen, 

last  night. 

Wyle, 

lure,  entice 

Yill, 

ale. 

Wyliecoat, 

undervest. 

Ymollen, 

melted. 

Ynutyle, 

useless. 

Yanne, 

than. 

Younkers, 

youngsters. 

Yatte, 

that. 

Yttes, 

its. 

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POETRY 

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Edited  by  Frederick  Morgan  Padelford,  Professor  of  English,  Univer- 
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Edited  by  J.  F.  A.  Pyre,  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Wisconsin 

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Edited  by  Stuart  P.  Sherman,  late  Literary  Editor  of  the  New  York 

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Edited  by  Will  D.  Howe,  formerly  head  of  the  Department  of   English., 
Indiana  University 

ARNOLD:  Prose  and  Poetry 

Edited  by  Archibald   L.  Bouton,  Professor  of  English  and  Dean  of  the 
Graduate  School,  New  York  University 

BACON:  Essays 

Edited  by  Marv  Augusta  Scott,  late  Professor  of  the  English  Language 
and  Literature,  Smith  College 

BROWNELL :  American  Prose  Masters 

Edited  by  Stuart  P.  Sherman,  late  Literary  Editor  of  the  New  York 
Herald  Tribune 

BURKE:  Selections 

Edited  by   Leslie  Nathan   Broughton,  Assistant  Professor  of  English, 
Cornell  University 

CARLYLE:  Past  and  Present 

Edited  by  Edwin  Mims,  Professor  of  English,  Vanderbilt  University 

CARLYLE :  Sartor  Resartus 

Edited  by  Ashley  H.  Thorndike,  Professor  of  English,  Columbia  University 

EMERSON:  Essays  and  Poems 

Edited  by  Arthur  Hobson  Quinn,  Professor  of  English  and  Dean  of  the 
College,  University  of  Pennsylvania 

FRANKLIN  AND  EDWARDS:  Selections 

Edited  by  Carl  Van  Doren,  Associate  Professor  of  English,   Columbia 
University 

HAZLITT:  Essays 

Edited  by  Percy  V.  D.  Shelly,  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Penn- 
sylvania 

LINCOLN:  Selections 

Edited   by    Nathaniel   Wright   Stephenson,  author   of    "Lincoln:    His 
Personal  Life  " 

MACAXJLAY:  Historical  Essays 

Edited   by   Charles   Downer   Hazen,    Professor  of   History,   Columbia 
University 

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THE    MODERX    STUDENT'  S    LIBRARY 


MEREDITH:  An  Essay  on  Comedy 

Edited  by  Lane  Cooper,  Professor  of  the  English  Language  and  Litera- 
ture, Cornell  L'niversity 

PARKMAN:  The  Oregon  TraU 

Edited  by  James  Cloyd   Bowman,  Professor  of  English,  Northern  State 
Normal  College,  Marquette,  Mich. 

POE:  Tales 

Edited  by  James  Southall  Wilson,  EAgai  Allan  Poe  Professor  of  English, 
University  of  Virginia 

RUSKIN :  Selections  and  Essays 

Exiited  by  Frederick  William  Roe,  Professor  of  English,  University  of 
Wisconsin 

STEVENSON:  Essays 

Edited  by  William  Lyon  Phelps,  Lampson  Professor  of  English  Litera- 
ture, Yale  University 

SWIFT:   Selections 

Edited  by  Hardin  Craig,  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Iowa 

THOREAU:  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack  Rivers 

Edited  by  Odell  Shepard,  James  J.  Goodwin  Professor  of  English,  Trin- 
ity College 

CRITICAL  ESSAYS  OF  THE  EARLY  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Edited  by  Raymond  M.  Alden,  late  Professor  of  English,  Leland  Stanford 

UniTersity 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY  LETTERS 

Edited  by   Byron   Johnson   Rees,   late   Professor  of  English,  Williams 
College 

ROMANTIC  PROSE  OF  THE  EARLY  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Edited  by  Carl  H.  Grabo,  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Chicago 

SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  FEDERALIST 

Edited  by  John  S.  Bassett,  Professor  of  History,  Smith  College 

SEVENTEENTH  CENTimY  ESSAYS 

Edited  by  Jacob  Zeitlin,  Associate  Professor  of  English,  University  of 
Illinois 

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THE   MODERN   STUDENT'S   LIBRARY 


BIOGRAPHY 

BOSWELL :  Life  of  Johnson 

Abridged  and  Edited  by  Charles  Grosvenor  Osgood,  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish, Princeton  University 

CROCKETT:  Autobiography  of  David  Crockett 

Edited  by  Hamlin  Garland 


VOLUMES  IN  PREPARATION 

ELIOT:  Middlemarch 

With  an  introduction  by  Arthur  Beatty,  Professor  of  English,  Univer- 
sity of  Wisconsin 

MELVILLE:  Moby  Dick 

With  an  introduction  by  Carl  Van  Doren,  Associate  Professor  of  Eng- 
lish, Columbia  University 

NEWMAN:  Selections 

Edited  by  Henry  A.  Lappin,  Professor  of  English,  D'Youville  College 

ROMANTIC  POETRY  OF  THE  EARLY  NINETEENTH  CENTURY 

Edited  by  Arthur  Beatty,  Professor  of  English,  University  of  Wisconsin 


PHILOSOPHY  SERIES 
Editor,  Ralph  Barton  Perry 

Professor  of  Philosophy,  Harvard  University 

ARISTOTLE:  Selections 

Edited  by  W.  D.  Ross,  Professor  of  Philosophy,  Oriel  College,  Oxford 
University 

DESCARTES:  Selections 

Edited  by  Ralph  M.  Eaton,  Assistant  Professor  of  Philosophy,  Harvard 
University 

HUME:  Selections 

Edited  by  Charles  W.  Hendel,  Jr.,  Associate  Professor  of  Philosophy, 
Princeton  University 

PLATO:  Selections 

Edited  by  Raphael  Demos.  Assistant  Professor  of  Philosophy,  Harvard 
University 

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THE   MODERN   STUDENT' S   LIBRARY 


Volumes  in  Preparation 

BACON:  Selections 

Edited  by  Matthew  Thompson  McClure,  Professor  of  Philosophy,  University 
of  Illinois 

HEGEL:  Selections 

Edited  by  Jacob  Loewenberg,   Professor  of  Philosophy,  University  of 
California 

KANT:  Selections 

Edited   by   Theodore   M.   Greene,  Assistant   Professor   of   Philosophy, 
Princeton  University 

LOCKE:  Selections 

Edited  by  Sterling  P.   Lamprecht,   Associate   Professor  of  Philosophy, 
University  of  Illinois 

PLATO:  The  Republic 

With  an  introduction  by  C.  M.  Bakewell,  Professor  of  Philosophy,  Yale 
University 

SCHOPENHAUER :  Selections 

Edited  by  DeWitt   H.   Parker,   Professor  of  Philosophy,   University  of 

Michigan 

MEDIAEVAL  PHILOSOPHY 

By  Richard  McKeon,  Instructor  in  Philosophy,  Columbia  University 


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UC  SOUTHERN  RFGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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